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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918839">Now Get Us Out of Here</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miasunrise/pseuds/Miasunrise'>Miasunrise</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Link (Legend of Zelda), Blood, Drama, M/M, Mild Gore, Romance, Selectively Mute Link (Legend of Zelda), Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Traveling Together</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:33:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>113,162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miasunrise/pseuds/Miasunrise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time he’s felt every angle, Link is grinning. He holds the blade up to the sparse sunlight between the canopy of leaves overhead, watching the pretty way it glitters darkly. It’s blacker than the sky during a blood moon. It’s the blackest thing he’s ever seen.</p><p>The gem shines, reflecting red light across his cheeks.</p><p>Link can’t say how long he sits in that bed of golden roses, holding dark steel and smiling.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ghirahim/Link (Legend of Zelda)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>364</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Master Sword</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Warnings</b>: Mild violence, mild depictions of gore, blood, a lot of lore-breaking, spoilers for both games.</p><p>I am nine years late to this party... I'm not sure anyone will like this? I don't even know if anyone's going to read it @_@ If people are interested, I'll keep posting. If not I'll just write it for myself, which is okay. I just have no idea how active this ship is.</p><p>This is super influenced/inspired by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456671/chapters/30846954">Blind, But Now</a>. If you haven't read it, go do that instead! It's the reason I'm here posting this. </p><p>Ahh okay here, take it;;</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Damp spring grass pads softly under his boots as Link reaches the top of the hill. Wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead, he surveys the area. Pink-flowering trees skirt down the waves of hills in front of him, each soaked in orange light, a hazy fog rising from their tops as the early morning sun heats the fields. Beyond that, he can’t see much. The fog gets thicker the farther east he looks.</p><p>Rolling his left shoulder, Link starts walking down towards the pink trees. He wishes he’d worn something warmer. Despite the sunshine, the air is cool. Nothing he can do about it now. His white tunic and traveler's pants will have to do.</p><p>Impa had sent him out on this particular quest. He’d only woken up from the shrine about month ago, and barely made it to Rito Village before Kaneli asked him where his ‘legendary sword’ was. Link had no idea he even <em>had</em> a sword, let alone that it was missing. He still didn’t remember much about his past, though, even with Zelda's pictures on the slate, so it hadn’t surprised him.</p><p>Kaneli insisted he’d need this master sword for Vah Medoh. Link had pointed out he’d already tamed Vah Rudania without it, but the Elder only shook his head solemnly, disappointedly, and said, ‘The Hylian Hero was meant to come hilt-in-hand with the master sword. The Goddess would have it no other way, not even for his descendant.’</p><p>Link’s pretty sure he remembers the King saying something about it, too, before he’d left the Plateau. So he’d shrugged, nodded, and headed towards Kakariko Village.</p><p>Impa told him to check the Lost Woods, and so here he is, on the southwest side of Death Mountain, looking north towards a sea of fog. </p><p>As he enters the din of the Lost Woods, he wonders what it will look like, his sword. What colour will it be? Silver, probably, with a hilt wrapped in leather, maybe. Will it be small and easy to swing, like a knight’s sword, or heavy and sturdy, like a claymore? Link hasn’t decided if he has a preference yet. Both have their uses. If he’s fighting a moblin he likes a heavier blade. But for a group of bokoblins, a smaller one does the trick. Then again, he can imagine swinging a heavy sword and attacking a group of monsters in a full swinging circle, so…</p><p>Grinning from one pointed ear to the other, Link can’t say he cares what it looks like. Whatever size or shape, it’s enough to know that it’s his. It’s something he used to own, back before his memories had been lost. Another piece of the puzzle of his forgotten life.</p><p>He feels like he had when he’d had his first memory of Zelda. Sudden excitement and a rush of love his heart remembers even if his head doesn’t; the feeling of coming home.</p><p>The heavy haze of the Lost Woods engulfs him as he enters the treeline. There are torches to light the way, though, and Link lights the end of a bokoblin club as he makes his way. It’s easier than trudging through the Lanayru Wetlands had been, so he picks up the pace. He doesn’t want to keep the sword waiting. </p><p>Stopping in the middle of the fog-laced forest, Link wrinkles his nose into a confused frown. </p><p>How could a sword wait for him? </p><p>He hasn’t slept in awhile. And he’s been eating nothing but raw mushrooms for two days. He probably just needs some rest. </p><p>Shaking himself, Link continues his trek through the foggy woods, torch lighting his way.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>The Korok Forest breaks the fog. It’s a fresh breath of green air compared to the hollow, blue-green woods he’d left behind him. The trees are shorter, stuffed with fat unfolding leaves, and the koroks hide shyly inside them.</p><p>He stretches near the entrance, working out a few tight muscles. Looking all around him with bright curiosity, Link eventually decides on a direction to start in. He heads to the right. </p><p>He’s met a few koroks out in the wilds of Hyrule. It’s nice to meet them in their home, and he waves as he walks through. They’ll probably come out of hiding on his way out, <em>and</em> probably need him for something – everyone seems to – but he wants to find his sword first.</p><p>As he makes his way deeper, the trees begin to get thicker, and the sun starts to blot out. It’s not as haunting as the Lost Woods was. Not even close. But the trees all seem too straight, too close together, and too uniform. They almost look man-made. Their bark is grey, but the leaves are a deep green, somehow like a shade he’s never seen before. </p><p>He wouldn't describe any of it as eerie, exactly. It all looks…  heavy. Full.</p><p>Pulling out his weapon, a simple spear he’d picked up from a stable, Link scans left and right as he walks on quiet feet. </p><p>Even the dirt seems richer. Everything is a vibrant colour. Everything is <em>more</em>. More branches than should be on any tree, more leaves, flowers and vines spilling out in heaps and boughs of unfurling life. It almost makes him dizzy. It’s a lot to look at.</p><p>Eventually, Link has to come to a stop. There’s a wall in front of him, which he’d spotted yards away. Up close he can see that it’s made from thorns, and that it fills all the spaces between all the stark trees around him. He tries to walk around it, but it, as well as the forest, seems to go on forever in every direction.</p><p>The thorns are black and red, twisting gold roses peering out at him in sharp angles. The petals aren’t… normal. Squinting and leaning in close, Link can see that each petal is shaped like a diamond, slanted parallel lines rounded barely enough to look like a real flower. They almost look like paper.</p><p>Well… this is definitely the right place. Hyrule’s never given him anything important without an obstacle in the way.</p><p>The very first thing he tries to do is burn the thorns down. </p><p>The fires light, and they burn high and strong, but when the flames die away the twenty-foot high wall of thorns and roses is still there.</p><p>Slipping his bow onto his back, Link sighs through his nose and resigns himself to his thorny fate. </p><p>He grips at swirling black twigs, digging his fingers into any nook he can find. It’s easy enough to avoid the thorns at eye-height, but his thighs and calves are torn by the time he reaches the top of the wall. It hurts, but it’s… It’s the good kind of hurt. The kind that comes with purpose. </p><p>Once at the top, he takes a look out in front of him.</p><p>He sees it right away. His eyes jump to it like a cat’s to a bird. It’s stuck into the side of a gnarling, angry black rock, surrounded by more red-and-black vines, and surrounded again by golden roses. </p><p>A sword.</p><p>It’s big. He can see that from his perch. It’s bigger than any sword he’s ever held. The hilt is as black as night, wound in tight leather and fanning out like serrated wings near the base. He can’t see most of the actual blade because the sword is stabbed into that obsidian, but what he can see is black too. </p><p>A breeze blows through, shifting rays of sunlight through leaves. They reflect off that black metal, blinding Link for a moment. </p><p>He glides down to the other side of the thorny wall, landing on a mossy forest floor with a wet squish. His boots sink down into the moss.</p><p>The thorns cut his arms and hands and thighs and feet as he wades through them; they surround the slated obsidian and the sword stuck through it like a barrier. If he needs to prove himself, he’ll prove himself. It’s nothing new. Link downs a few elixirs and continues on.</p><p>Once he’s past the thorns, it’s only golden roses with angular petals, and these are nicer. They smell like spice. Rich, warm; they pull at a deep part of his memory. He knows this smell. Half expecting the jolt of a new memory, he waits. But nothing comes. </p><p>The obsidian sheathing the sword is blacker than pure ink, and as hard as steel to the touch. He climbs onto it, the sword’s thick black hilt reflecting in the blues of his eyes.</p><p>It doesn't look familiar. Not at all. </p><p>Link rolls the sleeves of his tunic up, exposing deep cuts to the cool air. Taking a slow breath, he grabs the hilt tight with both hands.</p><p>Like a fire had lit inside him his heart is rushed with warmth. Link closes his eyes without meaning to, and lets the rest fall to feeling. He grips at the hilt, the leather hot against his palms. Power surges from the sword. Letting his hands rub at the hilt as he tightens his grip, he groans with effort, fighting to keep himself upright as some immeasurable force judges him worthy... or not.</p><p>Impa had said there would be a trial, that the master sword would reject him if he wasn’t strong enough to wield it.</p><p>Another burning surge of raw energy engulfs Link. It starts from his hands and rolls up his arms, burning his wrists and shoulders, then scorching down his back. He holds on tighter. His brow is soaked with sweat. Behind his eyelids he can see red light, can feel the heat of it radiating all over his cheeks, his neck, and his bare arms. He smells something burning, and thinks it might be the hairs on his arms. </p><p>Grinding his teeth and grunting with the strain of it, Link starts to pull. He bends his knees and tightens his arms and lifts from his legs. The sword moves. Only half an inch. But it’s all the encouragement Link needs. His holds the hilt stronger still, his heart singing with hope, and pulls with everything he's got.</p><p>With a crack in the obsidian that rings clear through the forest, the blade slips out. Link, all of his muscles flexed to free the steel, over-shoots it.</p><p>He flies backwards off the rock and lands on his back on top of the golden roses, just barely missing the thorns. The sword smacks heavily into his chest, pushing a startled grunt out of him. Then the hilt smacks him square in the mouth. It cuts his upper lip open where it mashes against his teeth.</p><p>Panting, scrambling, blood dripping down his chin – Link searches blindly for the hilt. He sits up as he grabs it, holding the sword out to get a good look, his heart racing.</p><p>It’s even darker up close, made of a dim black steel and handle like tar. The blade is segregated into three sections, each one flared out to an inverted sharp point. There’s a red gem near the handle.</p><p>The sword is massive. It’s as tall as he is, and at least half an inch thick. </p><p>Link closes his eyes, and his heartbeat flutters in his ears.</p><p>Opening them, he rubs his fingers along the hilt, searching across warm leather. It's tight, layers of fabric woven in patterns that drag under his fingers. Slipping his hands up the blade, he touches the gem; it’s cool, unlike the rest of the sword. Moving back down the blade he touches at its serrated edges. It’s sharp all the way down, as far as he can reach. Link moves the sword across his lap and feels all the way down to the sharp tip, unable to help the shiver that runs down his spine.</p><p>By the time he’s felt every angle, Link is grinning. He holds the blade up to the sparse sunlight between the canopy of leaves overhead, watching the pretty way it glitters darkly. It’s blacker than the sky during a blood moon. It’s the blackest thing he’s ever seen.</p><p>The gem shines, reflecting red light across his cheeks.</p><p>Link can’t say how long he sits in that bed of golden roses, holding dark steel and smiling.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>He leaves the overflowing forest the same way he’d come, only now considerably heavier. The master sword is a giant weight tugging at his back, chest, and shoulders. It kind of figures, though. No sword called the <em>master sword</em> would be anything less than immense. </p><p>Link passes through the Korok’s Forest, trying to speak with a few of them on his way out. But they all hide as he gets close. This isn’t weird behaviour for them – they hide from him all the time everywhere else – so he doesn’t think much of it. He <em>is</em> covered in scrapes and blood. That’s off putting to most people.</p><p>Shrugging to himself, Link leaves through the hollowed out log. His legs and back are tired after only an hour spent with this new weight. It’s been a hundred years since he’s carried the master sword, at least according to Impa. It’ll take some time but he’ll get used to it.</p><p>He’d had to take his shirt off and use it as a sort-of sheath just to secure the weapon across his back. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now. He’s not sure where he’s going to get a sheath big enough to hold it. In the days he’s been awake, Link’s never needed to find a larger one.</p><p>That merchant he’d met at the Woodland Stable might have something. It’s only a three hour hike from here. </p><p>The Lost Woods is easier to get out of than it was to get in. Link breaks from the fog into the sunset, and then he’s jogging across grassy fields again, pink flowers falling from treetops like snow. He takes a deep breath of fresh air. </p><p>He comes over a hill, sweating against sunlight with a mountainous black sword slashed across his back. After a few more deep breaths, Link pulls his hands into determined fists and continues on</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>It takes him four hours to get to the stable, instead of three. His hair is sticky with sweat by the time the horses come into view. Link comes up to a total of five feet, four inches – the master sword has to be at least that long. When he’d carefully set the hilt on his boot to measure, the tip of its sharp point had come up past his head. He wonders if he was supposed to have grown into it, a hundred years ago. At twenty-three, he doubts he’s about to get any taller.</p><p>He hears a crash outside the stables, and then someone runs by him in a hurry. Link watches them go, silent, and then turns his attention back to the noise.</p><p>Six bokoblins round the far side, clubs raised and lips pulled back into snarls. Link narrows his eyes. Monsters attack stables pretty often – easy targets for them. Reaching back, he pulls his sword from its sheath. Since its “sheath” is just his rolled-up shirt, it’s not a smooth process, but he makes it work after a bit of wiggling. </p><p>He’ll be slow, but a single hit with thick metal should give these monsters something to cry about.</p><p>As soon as he’s gripping its hilt, Link feels something slip into place. He runs towards the stable – no need for stealth when they’re grouped this close together – and charges in. Link pulls the sword out to one side, his forearms tight in half-agony. But he digs his boots into the dirt and swings the blade into a dark arc, slicing through the six beasts with one slow movement.</p><p>They fall back, blood spilling from the ones who hadn't pulled their shields up in time. Four of them stand again, screeching at Link and shaking their clubs wildly. His lips pressed into a thin line, Link pulls the master sword back around, the black blade reflecting the early-evening stars above, and points it out towards the bokoblins.</p><p>Link jabs the blade forward like a spear, sticking one monster through its front. A soft sound like wind passes over his ears. It whispers, barely heard at all. The other two bokoblins are on him. Link spins himself in a circle, holding the heavy sword out, and knocks them back with a grunting yell.</p><p>They run away, heading out towards Hyrule Forest.</p><p>Breathing heavily, Link looks down at the sword. It’s black steel is gleaming with violet blood. He holds it with both hands and lifts the blade up to eye-level.</p><p>It’s even more beautiful under a twilight sky. He’s never seen black steel before. He didn’t know a sword could look like this.</p><p>Grinning, Link slips it back through the make-shift sheath on his back and heads inside the stable.</p><p>“Hello, Link!” Kish greets him. “Thanks for takin’ care of them for us. You stayin’ here tonight? We’ve got a bed free… woah.” His eyes widen when they catch sight of the black mass behind him. “Quite… Quite a sword you got there, huh?”</p><p>Setting rupees on the counter, Link nods with a relaxed smile. He’d given sixty rupees, which is enough for a bed and access to some washing materials. Kish hands them over, and tells him to enjoy his stay.</p><p>Beedle’s not anywhere when Link walks around to look. Well, he’ll probably be here in the morning.</p><p>Exiting the stable, Link heads towards the firepit. He grabs one of the many wooden pails lying around, a block of soap and rag in his other hand, and boils well-water for the task. Normally he cleans his weapons – and himself – straight in a pond or river. But somehow he can’t picture sticking this sword in cold river water. </p><p>Well... it’s the <em>master</em> sword. A river just doesn’t fit.</p><p>Standing, Link presses the sword’s hilt into his boot, and begins wiping down the blade with a cloth. He’d wanted to sit down, but the sword is too long. He wouldn’t be able to reach into all of its edges. Holding it by the flat of the blade with his left hand, Link works slowly. He watches the way warm soapy water slides down thick steel. As more of the stars blink into life above him, they reflect in the void-black of his sword.</p><p>It’s not like normal steel. It’s matted, dull, but somehow shines. It’s like it eats light and sends it back out. Link stares, trying to make sense out of the mangled beauty his eyes are seeing.</p><p>A whispering noise skirts across his ears, snapping him out of a trance. He raises one eyebrow, looking around. He doesn’t see anyone nearby. He’s the only person using the fire.</p><p>He’s used to Zelda in his head – and that wasn’t her. He’s not even sure it was speech at all. Probably the wind and not enough sleep playing tricks on his ears.</p><p>Once the sword’s clean, Link dumps the water out and tosses the rag into the stable’s laundry pile, and returns inside. His arms are sore, aching from lifting the extra weight all day. But just like climbing that wall of thorns, it’s the kind of pain that means something.</p><p>If he can work his muscles through this pain, build them up enough to be able to wield this sword well, then every ache in his legs and back will be worth it. The master sword had cut through those bokoblins like they were <em>paper</em>.</p><p>Hefting it onto his back, Link heads over to his bed for the night. He lays the sword down on the mattress, kicks his boots off, and then lies down himself. The red gem is the last thing he sees before Link slips into unconsciousness, tired to his very bones.</p><p>When he wakes up in the morning, Beedle is sitting at a small table inside the stable. Once he’s pulled himself from the warm bed (a slow process), Link makes his way over, sword slung across his back. He has to carry it at almost a ninety degree angle to keep it from scraping across the wooden floor.</p><p>“Hello again!” Beedle says when he spots Link coming over. Link yawns, waving tiredly. “We sure seem to run into each other a lot. What can I—” The merchant stops short. The blond sets his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrow. Beedle is gawking at him. Had he woken up with bedhead? “That… That’s a big sword you got there.”</p><p>Link looks behind himself, down at the blade, then back at Beedle. He nods. </p><p>“No offense or anything… You’re my best customer lately and all… But.” The merchant frowns, scratching at his chin and peering at the sword. “I dunno. Doesn’t it seem kinda… bad?” he asks.</p><p>Link looks behind himself again, eyebrows arched with curiosity. Looking back at Beedle, he shakes his head. </p><p>“If you say so.”</p><p>Link opens his hands wide, gesturing to the merchant’s wares.</p><p>“Yeah, sure thing.” Looking warily away from the sword, Beedle meets his eyes. “I’ve got some great new items here today!”</p><p>Link browses through his items, but doesn’t see a sheath big enough.</p><p>“What were you looking for?”</p><p>Turning around, Link points with a thumb at the make-shift sheath he has haphazardly securing the sword to his back. He’d made a long loop with his shirt, tied this to the belt around his torso, and set the sword through the shirt. After only a day of hauling it around like that, though, there are red lines dug into his skin from the belts. And pulling it out of the make-shift shirt-sheath is finicky at best.</p><p>“Ooooh,” Beedle says. “A new sheath, huh? Maybe some bigger belts, too.” He shakes his head sadly. “Sorry. I don’t have anything like that. You’ll probably have to ask someone to hand-make you something. I do have smaller swords, though. Do you want to take a look? That thing will compress your spine if you’re not careful.”</p><p>Smiling politely, Link shakes his head, neck craned to look back at the merchant. He turns around to face him again and signs <em>Thank you,</em> a hand from his chest out towards the person he’s thanking, and then he leaves.</p><p>Eating apples on the way, Link tries to decide what to do next. With the master sword in hand, he could go back to Rito Village and try to tame Vah Medoh. That’s at least a week long hike, though, and the sores on his back from carrying the sword with these too-small belts will only get worse. On top of that, he’s still not great with his new weapon. He needs practice.</p><p>It’s probably better to go back to Kakariko Village and talk to Impa. She’ll want to know that he found the master sword alright, and she might be able to tell him things about it he can’t remember.</p><p>Destination decided, Link turns his direction south, eating apples as he goes.</p><p>It’s not long before he meets more monsters. Link drops a half-eaten apple onto the grass and works the sword out of its awkward sheath, pulling with both hands. It’s a group of lizalfos, standing guard along the river. They spot him when the red gem reflects light across their camp.</p><p>Lowering himself to strike, Link waits with narrowed eyes.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Blearily the demon lord Ghirahim comes into the light of consciousness, though it is a dim light. Over the millennia he has faded in and out of sentience. Each time he came to himself, he was only aware of the dull sensation of being sunk to the hilt inside that cold obsidian. Vague senses of temperature. A forest. And the pull of time gnawing at his mind.</p><p>Now... there is something different. There is blood, wet and warm and slicking his blade. There is wind. There is bright sunlight, fresh morning air. There are death throes, great screams of monstrous pain.</p><p>Those hands… the tight grip of calluses. Had they truly managed it? Where are they? All he tastes is lizalfo blood… disgusting. Could the skychild find him no better…</p><p>The light is not enough, his spirit requires rest. As listlessly as he had woken up, Ghirahim returns to the void of his resting place, deep inside his own sword.</p><p><br/>--</p><p>
  <em><br/>...find no better… </em>
</p><p>Link’s eyes widen as he heaves the blade through a lizalfo’s neck. Someone had spoken. Someone talked like they were standing next to him, like a mouth was right beside his ear.</p><p>He chances a look, but sees no one. </p><p>With no time to wonder about it, Link narrows his eyes to focus on the fight. He kills the lizards with a few final slow strikes, his back and arms aching with effort. He’s sore from yesterday. Even dodging them is slower with the extra weight.</p><p>But he comes out of the fight with only one gash.</p><p>Lizalfos dead, Link peers down at his sword, listening hard with pointed ears.</p><p>He waits.</p><p>But there’s only the sound of wind through his hair.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Link sees the shrine just a few hundred yards from the Wetland Stable, and can’t help but head towards it. Kakariko Village is only a day’s hike away, but he has time. These are the goddess’s trials for him, and he wants to prove himself. He’ll become stronger, tame the divine beasts, beat Ganon, save Zelda and save Hyrule. He’ll do all of it.</p><p>Adjusting the sword at his back, he slips into the shrine’s alcove. He hasn’t heard anymore weird whispering or voices in his head, except Zelda. It must have been his imagination. Link likes to think he handles pressure well, but maybe it’s getting to him a little.</p><p>The shrine’s priest tells him their name – <em>Kaya Wan</em> – and then Link steps forward to begin his trial.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Ghirahim tastes the familiar stench of the goddess as he comes to once again. It is <em>foul</em>, some unearthly divine bitterness threaded with celestial indifference. It is not what he would prefer to wake up to. There is also… steel? stone? His blade cuts through some contraption, busting apart bolts and screws made alive by the goddess’s power.</p><p>Ah. They are in one of her temples. Her light is everywhere, radiating from on high like some sickly sun.</p><p>
  <em> ...disgusting… </em>
</p><p>Hands at his hilt tense. The foolish hero always had poor concentration, so easily distracted by every little sound. Ghirahim attempts to snap at him to focus, but nothing is forthcoming. His voice will not call out from the sword. He cannot see anything. He cannot call to his corporeal form, is only a vague sense floating inside tempered steel.</p><p>His blade is swung with tight hands through a beast’s core, stone and metal falling apart under him. His sharp, serrated edges rip through the hard mass, and Ghirahim feels it more clearly, this time. The cold slice of steel. The shattering of rock. The hard press of deft fingers into his hilt.</p><p>Oh he wishes it were blood, this mechanical pressure stings his blade, he needs flesh, it <em>had</em> been blood, soaking his blade, tight hands surging him through warm bodies, ending pattering heartbeats; why must they fight the goddess’s lifeless machines; the stone and metal feel like her guardians had, but how; they had only been in those Silent Realms where she claimed to cleanse an already irritatingly pure soul; perhaps a temple, but what temple would the foolish hero have brought him to? Skyview, or…</p><p><em>No</em>, he thinks clearly. There is no Skyview. No Skyloft, no Silent Realms, none of that old – <em>ancient</em>, <em>archaic</em>, surely by now – nonsense. At least it is very unlikely. Who knows what the goddess has done to reform her world. </p><p>Somehow, though, Ghirahim had slipped through the cracks.<br/><br/></p><p>--</p><p><br/>Jumping back from the resulting explosion, Link wipes sweat off his brow when the guardian finally dies. It drops its sword, which Link had been after. He can’t keep using the master sword, not today at least. His arms need a break. Building muscle takes time. He’ll get there.</p><p>Standing on a block of ice, cool air skirts up from his feet, and – shirtless – he shivers. This shrine is clearly testing his abilities with Cryonis. </p><p>After some frustrating contouring, he slips the master sword onto his back. It’s still a weight on his arms and legs, a weight to climb and jump with, but Link does it all with brows drawn down in determined focus. </p><p>Once he reaches the end of the shrine, he touches the blue light around the priest, completing his trial. </p><p>‘Your resourcefulness in overcoming this trial speaks to the promise of a hero…’ The familiar lines fill his head, not spoken out loud but understood inside his heart. ‘In the name of the Goddess Hylia, I…’ </p><p>The voice stops.</p><p>Tilting his head, Link squints at the priest. That’s never happened before. They usually throw their line at him and then a spirit orb floats into his hands.</p><p>‘Hero, chosen by the Goddess Herself.’ The priest’s voice had taken to a grim tone. It booms through the shrine, louder than it normally is. ‘<em>What have you brought into this Sacred Place?’</em></p><p>Link tilts his head in the other direction. Then he looks behind him. The only new thing he has with him is…</p><p>‘The Light of Hylia cannot harbour such evil.’ The priest, still unmoving, closes the blue wall of light around himself. ‘Hero, you shall be cleansed.’</p><p>Link opens his mouth into a silent <em>Huh?</em></p><p>And then the floor begins to shudder. Looking left and right with a gaping mouth, Link watches the walls of the shrine move. Stone slips past stone, glass breaks apart, and the water begins to drain from the floor. The blue lights stutter and go black, only to be relit in violent red. All around him the shrine shifts and changes, until he hardly recognizes where he is anymore at all.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>The sound of stone grating across stone. Pain. Ghirahim wakes up to searing pain, as if hands had dug dully into his bowels and were tearing out his insides. He tries to scream but no sound leaves him, no lips and not enough of a mind to speak with. He feels the slip of divine light sink in and begin unraveling his soul. A familiar feeling. Oh, this is nothing, only what he always knew was coming.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>The sword at his back is burning. It’s so hot it starts to singe his skin, and Link can smell burning flesh, sees smoke rising around his cheeks, fogging up from his back. </p><p>The shrine, now a deep crimson colour, is one large empty room. All of its trials had vanished, slipped into stone walls. He’s standing in an angry red hall, walls vibrating with shuddering madness.</p><p>Link turns on his heels and he <em>runs</em>. He runs as fast as he can, no water in his way, and scrambles up a ledge towards the pedestal he entered from. Sword searing at his back, heart roaring in his ears, the red lights turning brighter and brighter and brighter— He fumbles with the sheikah slate, pressing it into the pedestal and panting.</p><p>Echoing inside his head, Link can hear screaming.</p><p><em>Work</em>, he thinks, <em>please work.</em></p><p>His eyes widen when the light activates, and Link steps onto the platform and is lifted safely out of the shrine.</p><p>Once outside, he tears the sword off of his back, laying it down on the cool grass. The shrine quakes only feet from him, earth around it collapsing. In a cloud of dust and dirt the entire red-lit outer shell disappears. It sinks into the ground, earth spilling over its top, swallowed whole by Hyrule itself.</p><p>Link blinks a few times at the amazing sight. The emptiness left behind is too quiet. </p><p>That… was probably not good. If Hylia thought he needed to be cleansed, then maybe he did. Why did he run? The Goddess wouldn’t hurt him or the master sword. Impa said Hylia needs them <em>both</em> to defeat the calamity.</p><p>Crouched in a squat, Link reaches out and touches the blade where he laid it on the grass. He recoils his hand back, burned. When he turns his hand around to look, his fingers are black with char.</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>No more shrines. At least not until he talks to Impa.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next time Ghirahim is conscious, he can see. They are outside, a giant swamp to the north and a cliffside to the south, and Link is slaughtering a moblin. </p><p>Ah. The blood had woken him. </p><p>But he recalls the firey pain, his soul sifted through by divine fingers. What had happened? The useless Hylian must have saved him, must have gifted him time to rest. The curse of constant heroism. But why had he brought him to a temple at all?</p><p>Moblin blood is not Ghirahim’s favourite, not by any means, but in his tired state any blood will do, and at least it is not lizalfos. He sighs deeply in his mind, the sleek wetness covering his blade. </p><p>In his half-conscious state of the past few days, he has had time to… emote. He has emoted all that a demon such as himself requires. Never in his wildest thoughts did Ghirahim suppose this would happen, and however he may feel about it, it is done. </p><p>Still. The hands on his hilt leave him a bit… indisposed. Yet who could blame him? Three thousand years is a long time for a sword to go unwielded. </p><p>He does wonder why Link hasn’t spoken. Though perhaps the foolish hero does not think Ghirahim at all conscious. The demon has not said a word himself, and Link had never been one to talk unnecessarily.</p><p>It matters little. A bit more blood, and Ghirahim will gladly be the one to speak first. </p><p>There is something he can do now, however.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Link lowers his stance, bending into a wide crouch and waiting. Moblins are slow and stupid, exactly what he needs to practice with the master sword. He’s only half an hour outside of Kakariko Village, his guardian sword resting against a tree a few yards away. He’d seen the moblin and beelined for it, even though he really needs to talk to Impa about that shrine. </p><p>For some reason, Link hadn't wanted to bring the master sword to Impa burned and beaten. He’d given it a few days of rest, walking around nearby forests and gathering food. </p><p>It seems okay, now. It’s back to its strange-steel gleam, and the red gem is shining even brighter than before. Maybe the shrine really <em>had</em> been helping, and Link had screwed it up in his panic.</p><p>As soon as this moblin is dead, he’ll head straight into Kakariko Village and find out for sure.</p><p>With a low grunt Link starts swinging the blade, the force knocking the wind out of him, and the moblin walks right into the sword’s path.  Pulling back, Link reverses the spin with a loud groan, cutting deeper into the beast’s side. </p><p>Deep violet spills out across the green grass, sinking into soil, making the ground under him spongey. </p><p>But the moblin doesn’t fall. It staggers, a giant gash carved along its torso. It limps forwards and the blond holds his sword out straight, ready. The moblin raises its club overhead and moves to strike.</p><p>Just as that club falls towards Link’s face, he hears a sound. </p><p>It’s a deep but bright noise. Like clear ringing crystal, or heavy rainfall on a metal roof. </p><p>Link jumps out of the way of the club, knees straining with weight, and the sound chimes again. This time it comes from a different place, up higher, somewhere near the beast’s throat. This would normally be where Link would aim for after a moblin strikes down with its weapon, because the attack leaves its throat wide open for a hit.</p><p>Stunned, Link misses his chance.The moblin lifts itself back up and stands tall. Link narrows his eyes, trying to focus.</p><p>A chime rings from behind him this time. As if on cue Link turns on his heels, using the sword as a counter-weight to spin faster, and comes face-to-face with three bokoblins. They’d snuck up behind him. He holds the sword up just in time, the movement painfully slow; but it meets the onslaught of attacks with clanging metal.</p><p>The sound comes again, this time in a flutter of chimes, and Link gets the feeling he’s being scolded.</p><p>Is this one of the sword’s abilities? He wonders as his elbows bend back, trying to hold off the three bokoblin clubs pushing at the sword. Impa will be able to tell him. Once he deals with these monsters, he’ll head to the village. No more time for practice until he understands his sword better.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>If Ghirahim had teeth to grind, he would most certainly be grinding them. Does this useless hero forget how to fight? His reactions are incorrect at best, dangerous at worst, although the demon is signaling him perfectly. Perhaps, in the throng of reincarnation and millennial dissonance, his memories had been skewed slightly. How <em>weak</em> of him. All the months of training, of perfecting this system, only to let the goddess erase it all with a swipe of her devine hand. Ghirahim is furious.</p><p>Still. There is an awfully generous amount of blood coating his blade. For that, he imagines he will reward the hero greatly. </p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>The moblin behind him had died of its wounds, and now the three bokoblins are all he has left to deal with. Digging his heels into the grass, Link narrows his eyes at them, holding his sword tight.</p><p>
  <em> Such a firm grip is inappropriate in present company, don’t you think? </em>
</p><p>A lump leaps up his throat at the sonorous voice that rings clearly at his ears. Link fumbles, his fingers dancing to try and correct themselves.</p><p>But the master sword falls from his hands and hits the damp grass with a dull <em>thwump!</em></p><p><em>You DROPPED me!</em> That sonorous voice hikes up to a shrill, cold tone. It sounds scandalized, and then lowly furious. <em>Has time rendered you ineffective? Have you reverted back to the intolerably incompetent swordsman you were upon our first meeting? I will NOT be dropped again, or you will sorely</em> <em>come to regret it.</em></p><p>The blond can only gape, his eyes wide as that voice slips through his ears and into his head. One of the bokoblins moves in on him but he doesn’t notice.</p><p>
  <em> Focus, Link! </em>
</p><p>A chime sounds out again along with that voice and Link fumbles to pick his sword back up. Not looking, he swings the blade out towards the source of the chime. Steel meets flesh and his heart pounds in his ears. Another clear chime behind him has him turning the blade in a semicircle, striking through one of the remaining two bokoblins.</p><p>With a single monster left, Link takes a deep breath.</p><p>That sound rings again, somewhere near the beast’s shoulder, but Link ignores it.</p><p>He charges in as fast as he can – which is not fast at all – but the bokoblin strikes first. Its fat club smashes down on Link’s back, sending him face-first into the grass. He keeps one hand held tight on the sword.</p><p><em> May I be so gracious as to suggest you deserved that?  </em>the voice hisses in his ears. </p><p>Lifting himself off the ground with his free hand, Link frowns down into the dirt, irritated. Is the master sword supposed to be insulting him? If it can – apparently – <em>talk</em>, shouldn’t it be more encouraging? </p><p>Continuing to ignore the chimes, Link cuts through the last bokoblin after a few missed swings. When it finally falls, though, it grabs onto his sword, tugging.</p><p>Link, body exhausted from two days of his sword’s weight, trips.</p><p>
  <em> Idiot! </em>
</p><p>His upper arm is sliced through in a thin line. Red blood slips over the tip of black metal. It's not a deep cut, but it stings.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Blood. Warm, wet. Hylian. Link’s.</p><p>These thoughts scatter through Ghirahim’s still-waking mind, incoherent and all encompassing. Monster blood does him just fine, but there is nothing better than the blood of the hero he was created to slay.</p><p>Flowering energy rushes into him in a hurried moment. Days of rest, coatings of blood, and the weapon-worn hands at his hilt. It is enough.</p><p>The demon sword Ghirahim reaches for that magic that had always connected him to his body, and feels himself begin to smile with a corporeal mouth.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Link had fallen onto his knees on the grass, sword lying across his lap. He’s bleeding but he doesn’t feel it. There are four dead monsters lying around him, birds cawing in the distance, the sky of Hyrule stretching on in every direction, but he doesn’t see any of it. </p><p>Instead, Link can only gape up at the man looming over him, standing tall and preening in the afternoon sun. </p><p>Blood drips quietly from his arm onto blades of bright green grass.</p><p>“Ah,” that sonorous voice speaks again, low and exacting, now attached to a mouth lined with sharp teeth. “I always did enjoy you best on your knees. Such an… <em>opportune</em> height. Don’t you agree?”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Impa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I forgot to mention! My lovely gf <a href="https://actually-an-alpaca.tumblr.com/">Alpaca</a> is editing this for me. I can't tell you how many times I've cried 'I can't do this' at her and she's encouraged me to keep going. I try to cheer myself on, but she's a huge help. </p><p>Thanks for all the feedback! I'm shocked and really happy. Today's my birthday and all I wanted to do was post this. If you listen closely you'll hear the exact moment my heart breaks. :')</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>His hair is a more obnoxious shade of blond, more like the sun than the golden honey it had been before. It is longer, held back in a low tie, yet his fringe is the same swafting mess it had always been. Twigs and bits of leaves are stuck through the blond strands. His skin is covered in small scrapes and deeper gashes, including the fresh cut on his forearm. It all affects a ferocity that Ghirahim had seen in him before, though there are more scars here than he recalls previously on peach skin.  </p><p>This, however, seems to be where the physical differences end. Link is the same height, maintains the same muscled yet lean figure, and has the soft-sweet face he always had, outlined by a strong jaw suggestive of a stubbornly resilient disposition. His ridiculous green tunic is blessedly absent – in fact, he is without a shirt altogether.</p><p>Ghirahim waits for some kind of reaction. For anything at all. </p><p>Yet the Hylian simply continues to sit on his knees on the grass, his sword across his lap, and his lips parted in amazement. </p><p>As flattering as Link’s awe-filled surprise is, Ghirahim had hoped for a more... forward action. He had expected a reunion of sorts, now that he is entirely awake and wholly returned to himself. </p><p>Bending at the hips, he places a white-gloved finger under Link’s chin. “Close your mouth, hero,” he says, “or I should expect you to take me up on the offer.” Ghirahim snaps those pink lips closed for him. He hears his teeth clack together. Righting himself once again, he stands up straight with a smirk that slices through the space between them.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link can’t stop staring; his eyes feel like they’re swallowing everything in front of them, trying to take in the full breadth of it all, worried it might disappear in a flash. The diamond pattern cut into white cloth; the red cloak with its flaring hood lined with gold diamonds; the sapphire diamond in his ear; the grey skin that looks darker because his hair is so white; all of it seems so <em> loud</em>. His eyes start to hurt. Just like the forest he had pulled the sword from, the man smirking down at him is too much to look at.</p><p>Suddenly a weight is lifted from Link’s lap. The sword is pulled off of him and held easily. A white gloved hand reaches down, and Link takes it with wide eyes, his head spinning. He’s helped to his feet with an irritated sigh, and the sword is on his back again, set there by warm magic.</p><p>“Are you so surprised?” The man says as his neat brow rises in a high arch. He has an angular nose, bigger than what most people would find attractive but it fits the dramatic curves of his cheeks. His chin comes to a definite point, though his jaw is wide, and he’s wearing dark kohl around his eyes. If this man is the master sword then all of this must be familiar to some part of him, and that’s why he can’t stop looking.</p><p>Strong fingers wrap around his wrist. He feels each one press in and hold him exactly. In a fluid motion Link’s hand is pulled towards that angular face, and he’s brought in close with it. The man in front of him is at least foot taller but he leans down a little, dragging Link’s hand up.</p><p>Before Link knows it his gaze is full of eyes that shine darkly just like his blade, of a mouth lined with fanged teeth. His nose is flooded with the smell of hot metal, like a sword forged in hellfire.</p><p>“I am <em>here</em>, you foolish hero,” he says, and then pulls Link’s hand all the way up to his jaw.</p><p>Link makes a small sound from the back of his throat. The face under his hand feels like marble, or porcelain, or like the smooth pottery he finds in the ruins of Hyrule Field. It’s warm to the touch. It’s still flesh, muscles and bones underneath, but the skin is too perfect to be natural. </p><p>A hand presses into his back, forcing him in closer. Link sucks in a short, sharp breath, but lets himself be moved. The line of his gaze turns up to stay on dark eyes. His face floods with heat. It starts from his own hand, fingers laying against soft skin, and ends down somewhere near his chest. His brow twists up into confusion. His mouth opens to ask a question that never comes. </p><p>Encased in that taller frame, Link can only stare.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim frowns, and then narrows his eyes at the blond before him. The hand at his jaw has not moved an inch. “Are you alright?” He asks with vivid irritation, looking his face up and down. His eyes are a different colour, the demon notes. “Why are you acting as if—”</p><p>Realization washes over Ghirahim like a wave of arctic water. Points begin to connect in rapid succession: Link’s lack of speech, bringing him into one of the goddess's temples, his inability – thought of as unwillingness at the time – to follow his signalling, his gawking expression earlier, that hand held unmoving on his jaw now. </p><p>And he has <em>sight</em>, Ghirahim realizes wildly. Those blue eyes can <em>see</em> him. A breath of air escapes his mouth, silent and thin. They are looking into his own, irises darting back and forth like a frightened animal’s. </p><p>The shape of them may harbor that same pretty flare, but those are <em>not</em> Link’s eyes. They do not stare through him. Their colour is a paler blue, as well. Less like a dark ocean and much more like the sky. </p><p>How ironic.</p><p>Ghirahim untangles from the imitation before him, stepping away and feeling slightly ill. </p><p>It had been naive to entertain the thought that they had somehow slipped out from under the goddess’s notice. This is her doing, as it always is. Perhaps simply to taunt him, or perhaps she had this planned from the very beginning and merely left Ghirahim waiting inside that cursed <em>rock</em> because she knew it would make no difference. </p><p>Ghirahim had been a fool to wait, and worse than that to hope, but no harm done. His life, afterall, is infinite. He had always known this to be the most likely outcome. Slipping through the fingers of the centuries was difficult enough. </p><p>The only question remaining, then, is what to do now.</p><p>This boy may be a mere imitation, or a descendant perhaps – how is he to know the ways in which Hylia created her new Hero of Light? – but Ghirahim still owes a life debt. If he is unable to repay it to the deserving target, he will give it to this scion instead. He will follow him until a point wherein he can save him from death; and once this is repaid in full, once he no longer has any lingerings to latch onto, Ghirahim will move on. Three thousand years was too long to have waited in the first place. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
After a few deep breaths, Link’s face finally goes back to normal. He touches at his cheek, just to check. It’s the same temperature as the rest of him. Which is… warm, but not too hot. He gives himself a bit of a shake, just to be sure he’s all there.</p><p>“You must accept my sincerest apologies, young hero,” the diamond-clad man in front of him says. He’s standing five feet away now; had sent himself there in a waterfall of diamonds that danced through Link’s wide eyes. He drops into a low bow, one foot sliding behind the other, and one arm laid out in front of him across his red mantle. Gold bracelets encase his upper arms, a gold chain over his chest, and still more gold on his hips. Link starts to feel warm again, staring at the show in front of him. </p><p>Still holding himself in that low bow, the man continues, “I had merely forgotten my manners. Although you may not recall, I was indeed your sword in a past life. You and I fought your singular foe as one.”</p><p>Link stares at the top of his white hair. It’s so… silky. It seems to shimmer in sunlight, or maybe that’s just left over magic radiating from his figure.</p><p>“My name,” the man continues, still bent over in a bow, “is Ghirahim. I am the spirit of the very blade you hold, and further I am at your service.” He holds the bow a moment longer, and then steps his back foot forward to right himself.</p><p>Nodding eagerly, Link pulls the master sword from behind him and holds it towards the spirit. He may not remember anything but from the very first time he held this sword Link knew it was his. Even staring at this man – Ghirahim – he hasn’t been more sure of anything in his life. Which <em>technically</em> has only added up to about thirty days as far as his memory goes, but still. </p><p>Link knows that hilt, and he knows that voice.</p><p>He’s sure. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
To both his surprise and utter distaste, the hero is smiling. He does so with an open mouth, square teeth bared to the afternoon sun, and eyebrows rounded and glad. </p><p>Hylia must have done this intentionally, as well. For a quick moment Ghirahim finds himself in that temple again, held for the first time by…</p><p>Gripping one hand into a fist, the demon all but digs his fingernails through his glove and into his skin. There will be none of <em>that</em>. </p><p>Doing his best not to sneer at the gesture and the cheerful smile accompanying it, Ghirahim disappears inside his sword with a snap of his fingers and a flutter of diamonds. This Link is offering to carry him; an act born out of some sort of heroic sentimentality Ghirahim is woefully unequipped to comprehend. Let the boy. He had wasted three thousand years of his life inside that rock. The least someone could do was carry him. </p><p>As the blond turns to walk away, destination entirely unknown to the demon, Ghirahim realizes he still had not said a word.</p><p>Is this emulation able to talk at all? Or had the goddess returned his eyes in favour of his mouth? Her predilection for self-sacrifice is truly alarming. Still, he thinks as this boy slips him awkwardly through some cloth (is that a <em>shirt</em>? is that why he neglects to wear one? has he no proper sheath?), it is perhaps a blessing not to have to hear his voice.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Link arrives in Kakariko Village half an hour later. As he walks through some of the villagers give him a few weird looks, but he’s covered in dry bokoblin blood, and some blood of his own. He usually cleans up in a stream before he goes to any village or town, but he hadn’t even thought about it. He has too many questions for Impa about the master sword. Why didn’t she tell him there was a spirit embodying it? Link wouldn’t have made him wait around if he’d known. Even if he did seem kind of... intense. </p><p>Impa is sitting on her usual red pillows when Link climbs the wooden stairs and enters her cabin. Her wrinkled face smiles at him warmly, glad to see him as she always seems to be. Paya greets him with a shy smile. Link waves back at her, passing across the room to stand in front of Kakariko Village’s Elder.</p><p>He sets his hands on his hips, expecting her to make a comment about the sword on his back. When she doesn’t, Link just tilts his head.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
From within his sword, Ghirahim looks around the small wooden room. He has no sense of where they are, nor why they are here. All he had witnessed on their way in was offensively loud children screeching and running around like wild dogs. Link had knelt down to hit hands with one of them, palm-to-palm, an obnoxious slapping noise made by the impact – the purpose of which was entirely lost on the demon. </p><p>Then the boy had climbed these steps, entering this wooden structure. It was of some importance, judging by the guards stationed outside.</p><p>“Ah, Link. It is nice to see you again so soon,” the old woman sitting on an unnecessary number of pillows says. </p><p>Ghirahim is not one to stick his nose up at comfort. He loves a soft bed, warm blankets, and any number of feather pillows. Yet she has them stacked in a <em> tower</em>. This hag needs a lesson in self-indulgence, clearly. If he could slip out and rearrange her seat without being noticed – if that opportunity presents itself – he will take it.</p><p>The chains on her wide-brimmed hat rattle as she speaks again. “Have you any luck in recalling more of your previous life?”</p><p>For a moment Ghirahim’s blade fills with sharp warmth. </p><p>Link shakes his head.</p><p>“I see.” Those chains rattle again, and Ghirahim is overwhelmed with the sudden urge to strangle this old woman with them if she neglects further to get to the <em>point</em>. “You only need to follow the pictures on the slate, and the events from a hundred years ago will surely come back to you, brave warrior.”</p><p>Tension releases from his blade.</p><p>This Link must have felt something, because he turns to look at the sword behind him. </p><p>Ghirahim needs to focus, to rid his mind of all of these false hopes. The Link he had fought with is long dead and this boy carrying his sword has nothing of him. The goddess had rewritten him from a blank slate. That only made sense, considering her final words. For a raging moment Ghirahim is furious at himself once again for ever believing any other outcome might have been possible.</p><p>He will save this boy’s life, as soon as his goddess inevitably puts him in peril, and then they will be as even as Ghirahim could possibly make them.</p><p>Link clears his throat, and the demon is surprised for the second time in as many minutes. “I,” he starts, the voice a bit rough and difficult to make out, “I got it.”</p><p><em>You can speak!</em> Ghirahim nearly shouts it into his ear, unheard by anyone else, unable to restrain himself.</p><p>Link starts, eyes wide for a moment. But the expression drops back to all somberness and he merely nods, eyebrows folded in silent confusion.</p><p>“You got what, young hero?” The old woman asks, leaning forward on her lofty tower of misused pillows.</p><p>The blond pulls Ghirahim out of the sheath of his shirt, contorting awkwardly to slip him free. He holds the blade towards the old woman with two hands. The smile at his lips is full of nothing but burning pride.</p><p>“The master sword,” Link says.</p><p>Ghirahim nearly <em>drops</em> from his blade. He has thought up a few potential scenarios as to how this boy ended up with his sword, but <em>that</em> had not been one of them.</p><p>It seems that this imitation has similarly limited powers of perception.</p><p>The old woman peers up from under the brim of her wide hat, those chains rattling once more. “My young friend,” she says, the pace of her words gradual, each one pronounced to its entirety, “That… That is not the master sword.”</p><p>Pink lips part in surprise. Link looks down at Ghirahim’s blade again, and then once more at the old woman with an expression easily decoded as ‘It’s <em>not?’</em></p><p><em>Is that what you thought I was, boy?</em> Ghirahim hisses, somewhere between cackling with laughter and reeling with rage. To even <em>suggest</em> he was that pathetic dagger! A sword too indoctrinated to properly care for its Master, to fight against the divine hand that created it! Ghirahim would never be so weak.</p><p>“It does appear, however, to have considerable power.” The old woman holds out her hands, waiting. “If I may?”</p><p>
  <em>She is certainly correct about that. Much more power than your pitiful Fi.</em>
</p><p>“Fi?” Link asks out loud.</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Ah,” Link shakes his head. “Nothing. Here.”</p><p>Ghirahim is slid into wrinkled hands slowly. To his surprise, the old woman holds his weight with little trouble. Her grip is neither timid nor weak, and somehow seems... familiar. Uncomfortably so.</p><p>“Link,” she says, scrutinizing the sword with squinting eyes, “This blade… where did you find it?”</p><p>“In the Lost Woods, just like you said.” The boy’s voice comes out clear now. Ghirahim pays it and its melodic contours no heed. “Is there something wrong with it? One of the shrines, it–”</p><p>The old woman stops him short with one look. </p><p>Link goes stiff, his mouth snapping closed.</p><p>Is it so easy to shut him up? The Link Ghirahim had known was never one for verbose speech, but when he <em>had</em> something to say nothing could deter him. Maybe in this sense, his goddess really had taken his voice.</p><p>The woman turns him over, inspecting his spectacular red diamond with studying eyes. Having some stranger fondling his blade is beginning to make him feel vexed, and the demon does his best to ignore her hands. She hums to herself, and then Ghirahim feels her mind reaching out, a line of magic so small it nearly slips in. Yet he pushes back immediately, reflexively, panic taking him over for a blind moment. </p><p>The only being to ever do <em>that</em> to him was Demise.</p><p>If there could only be a single blessing about waiting in that forest for three millennia, it was that he had been as far away from his Master as he could possibly hope to be.</p><p>The old woman pushes again with her magic. Ghirahim begins to push back, but finds in a moment that there’s no need.</p><p>Link lifts him out of her hands by the hilt, concern colouring the small frown on his lips. “Don’t,” he says, holding the sword up just out of her reach.</p><p>“Brave hero,” the old woman starts, looking up at him and speaking with her hands. Oh but that expression affects a false kindness. Ghirahim knows it all too well. “That is <em>not</em> your sword,” she says, gaze not wavering.</p><p>Link pulls the sword back further, though his eyes are wide with attention, listening avidly. </p><p>With a finger pointed out towards him, a gesture Ghirahim feels is both unwarranted and rude, the old woman speaks again. </p><p>“Black as the pit it was bound in and inhabited by a demon with an even darker heart...” her brows furrow low, glaring at both sword and Hylian as she finishes. “Young warrior, this sword belongs to <em> Calamity Ganon</em>.” </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Precarious Partnership</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really should reread it again before posting but i cant look at it anymore i already  h a t e  it @_@ i hate the title too but there it is</p><p>sorry to be negative!! the anxiety of posting is my least favourite part;;</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>For the second time that day, Link can only stand there, stunned. His grip on the sword goes slack, his head spinning with too many questions, none of which make it to his mouth.</p><p>“I am uncertain how you ended up with this blade,” Impa says, scrutinizing it with a wrinkled glare. “Ganon's calamity seeps through it as surely as it infects our world. It must be dealt with right away.”</p><p>Link’s tongue feels like a hunk of lead in his mouth. “Dealt with?”</p><p>“We will have to dispose of it in Death Mountain.”</p><p>His hands tighten around the hilt again and Link finds himself taking a step back. “Impa…”</p><p><em>Impa?</em> That sonorous voice rings at his ears, full of surprise.</p><p>But Link isn’t listening. Instead he’s gaping at the woman in front of him, someone who his heart knows as an old friend, even if he can’t remember her. “It’s not… he’s not…” he flounders, head still spinning, “He can’t be Ganon's sword. He helped me fight my way here.”</p><p>Gleaming eyes pierce him. “You said one of the shrines acted strangely, no?” Impa gestures towards the sword with an open hand. “I suppose it objected to its presence, especially in the hands of Hylia’s Chosen Hero.”</p><p>Link’s mouth goes dry. He stays frozen in place, hands rubbing the hilt as they go from slack to tight, trying to get his mouth to work. He remembers holding the sword the first time, sitting in that bed of golden roses. He couldn’t stop smiling. The leather of its hilt felt familiar. The way it reflected and absorbed scattered sunlight could only be called fascinating.</p><p>At the time he hadn’t even considered it <em>might</em> be evil, but looking at it now – it’s oppressive weight sunk in his hands – it’s easy to see. The serrated edges brought to flaring sharp points, the blood-red gem, the wings on its hilt sweeping out in dark arches; this sword looks every part akin to the calamity he’s seen leaking from the castle.</p><p>But when Link had held it for that first time, after the burning of pulling it from that obsidian, he’d only felt… relieved. Restful. As if he’d been without it for a lot longer than a hundred years.</p><p>“Link.” Impa’s curt voice cuts through his thoughts. “Any affinity you feel for this blade is a trick. The demon inside has beguiled you.”</p><p>Link’s eyes widen, just a small fraction, and his hands slip a little slack. He’d been in a trance, more than once, carrying the sword from the Lost Woods to Kakariko. How long had he sat in that bed of roses? Minutes? Hours? A full day? He had lost track of time. And when he’d cleaned it by the fire outside the stable, he watched twilight stars reflecting in black steel and felt like he’d never seen anything half as beautiful. He’d washed it past the point of being clean. He’d also taken it to bed with him, which he hadn't found weird in the moment, but…</p><p>Maybe he <em>has</em> been beguiled, like Impa said. If this sword really is Ganon’s, it would be able to do what the calamity could, skew and distort and infect. That’s what Ganon had done to the Champions and their Divine Beasts. He’d seeped inside their hearts, binding their souls.</p><p>“I do not know what this demon has told you, brave hero, but it is a lie.” Impa stands up, the first time Link has ever seen her move, and walks towards him. She grabs the hilt of the sword with a grip stronger than he’d thought her old hands could manage. His heart speeds up. He looks at the place where her pale skin meets black leather. “Your soul has been tainted with its malice. Relinquish the blade to me, and I will see to its end.”</p><p>His mouth opens, but only a dry sound comes out.</p><p>“Release the sword, brave warrior.”</p><p>With a sharp gasp, Link opens his hand, letting the great weight of the sword fall to Impa’s instead.</p><p>She brings her other hand up to hold it by its blade as well as its hilt, and she nods with a thinly pressed mouth. “It must have hidden itself with the master sword, in hopes you would find <em>it</em> instead. How truly conniving,” she says, beginning to turn away from Link. “Who knows what such a creature would do to your soul with prolonged use? We should immediately—”</p><p>“...No,” he hears himself say, the single word cutting up his throat as if those twisted red and black thorns were growing inside him. With a dull <em>smack</em> he slaps his hand back over the hilt, grabbing the sword again. His knuckles turn white. What is he doing? He pulls the sword out of her hands and takes a long step backward.</p><p>
  <em>Oh? Enjoy being beguiled by me, do you?</em>
</p><p>Link feels his blood rush back and forth through his veins, flooding behind his eyes.</p><p>Impa looks shocked, and then serious. “Link. The demon has taken hold of your spirit. You must <em>listen</em> to me.” Taking a step towards him, her hand coils around the hilt, the side of her smallest finger pressing against Link’s. “You are Hylia’s Chosen Hero. Find that light inside your soul and resist this deranged beast.”</p><p>Link doesn’t move. He licks his lips, trying to think of a way to handle this. How to explain himself. But he doesn’t think he could, doesn’t know why but he <em>knows</em> he can’t let Impa take this sword. He knows it like he knew his own name when he woke up in the shrine, like he knew how to fight and how to speak with his hands. Like he knew who Zelda was. Something remembered by his heart, even if his mind forgets.</p><p>Impa reaches out for him, trying to pry his hands away from the hilt.</p><p>She wrenches three fingers free before the sound of chiming diamonds turns both of their heads.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Having had enough of the melodrama unfolding in front of him, Ghirahim releases his physical form from inside his sword. He appears in a flurry of diamonds, standing neatly beside this withered Impa and imitation-Link. Smiling with sickening sweetness, he picks her fingers off of his blade as if he were peeling an unwanted insect from his skin.</p><p>“I believe he said <em>no</em>,” Ghirahim says, dropping her fingers as he would drop a soiled rag.</p><p>“Demon,” Impa’s voice slips to baritone and she glowers at him. He can tell then, by the tone of her speech and that look in her eyes, that the very soul is the same, even if the body has changed. “Release your hold from Hylia’s Light.”</p><p>Ghirahim looms over her, his white hair hiding half his faux-gracious smile. “<em>He</em> is the one holding <em>me</em>, as it were.” He trails a gloved finger across Link’s knuckles over his hilt, turning his head to look down at them. “Such a firm grip.” Blue eyes flick up towards him, and Ghirahim taps against peach skin. “It is enough to render a sword such as myself entirely helpless.”</p><p>The Hylian’s mouth drops open. Ghirahim feels the knuckles under his delicate touch shift, and the grip on his hilt grow stronger.</p><p>He could not say the intent of his actions; simply that he knew it would upset Impa and he had made a habit of doing so in the past. If it is entertaining to see almost familiar blue eyes <em>watch</em> him with an awe-struck stare… Well, Ghirahim suspects he will be dead within a matter of hours. He may as well have his fun.</p><p>“Link, you <em>must</em> fight him.” Those eyes are gone with a call from her voice, staring instead across his sword and over at Impa. “The Hero’s pure spirit cannot be tainted, or Ganon will surely end us all.”</p><p>The knuckles under his fingers slacken.</p><p>“Link!”</p><p>Closing his eyes, the demon waits for the hands that hold him to release him; for good, this time.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Link hears the guards coming up the steps, and works out a plan. He furrows his eyebrows, trying his best to look confused, and lightens his grip on his sword. Impa’s harsh expression fades. She reaches out. Link, meeting her eyes, starts to hand the sword over again.</p><p>Just as the hilt leaves his palm, Link moves his hand under it, grips tight, and pushes Impa away – as gently as he can – with the flat side of the sword. She makes a winded noise, falling back into her tower of pillows. Paya screams and rushes to her side.</p><p>The guards pile through the front door, but Link is already running. He slips the sword on his back, the act still requiring a lot of twisting to get it secure, and leaps up the wall, onto the window’s ledge. He ducks his head down low to make sure he doesn't knock the sword on the windowpane. He hears and feels a thud when it happens anyway.</p><p>No shrill reply comes from the demon.</p><p>“Link!” Impa’s voice calls out. He freezes, perched on the sill. She’s standing in the middle of the room, three guards behind her, and she looks afraid. “You would go against the Goddess’s wishes? And Princess Zelda’s? Your destiny to save all of us, all of Hyrule?”</p><p>Link shakes his head, his mouth working soundlessly. He turns his back to her. Outside the green forest shimmers at him, early evening sun pulling out yellows and oranges from the flora. The shrine is just beyond that. If he can make it over, then...</p><p>“Do you intend to leave Zelda to fight off Ganon herself?” Impa asks. Link doesn’t turn around to look, but she must be holding her guards off. “She will <em>die</em> without your aid.”<br/><br/>“<em>No</em>,” his voice slips out hoarsly, the word barely a whisper. “I’ll– I’ll still…” His mouth doesn’t finish the sentiment, can’t; but the determination etched across his brow and jawline speaks for him.</p><p>And then Link leaps out the window.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Ghirahim, having at no point returned inside his blade, stands still inside Impa’s small cabin. Making a show of it, he holds one gloved hand up, the shimmer of diamonds already forming around it.</p><p>“What are you <em>doing</em>, demon?” The old hag asks.</p><p>Ghirahim smiles at his own hand. “Merely paying my attention to the most interesting thing in this room,” he says with a sigh.</p><p>“I do not know where you came from, or how Ganon crafted himself a blade in his current state. But it does not matter. Hylia’s Hero will not fall victim to your tricks for long.” The old woman glares at him, but motions for her guards to stay back. The most intelligent decision from her thus far, truly. “Link has a heart too pure for a parasite such as yourself to take root.”</p><p>“Then I suppose…” He turns his hand around, diamonds multiplying further up his arm as the call of his blade becomes undeniable. When he feels the final pull, Ghirahim drops his gaze to the old woman. “...you have nothing to worry about, do you?”</p><p>He lets his lips slice into a smirk, and then his sword steals him away.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Link feels it when the (demon? spirit?) when Ghirahim returns, his force entering the blade with a rush of warmth against his bare back.</p><p><em>You have succeeded in something entirely rare.</em> His voice rings in Link’s ears, the tone unreadable.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>
  <em>I am at a loss for words.</em>
</p><p>Sure that the sword is with him now, physically and otherwise, Link bursts into a thundering run. It won’t take Impa long to send people out searching. They need to get somewhere they can hide, and they need to do it fast.</p><p>
  <em>Running? Must we?</em>
</p><p>Ignoring him, Links forces his thighs and joints to work faster, feet connecting to ground in successive thumps. The sword slaps at his back as he goes, the too-small belts digging like wire into his shoulders and chest and torso. He runs up the steep hill to the Ta’loh Naeg Shrine.</p><p>“So,” he tries through panting breaths, “You’re– You’re not the— the master sword.”</p><p>
  <em>So you are able to speak.</em>
</p><p>Link hadn’t been trying to hide that, but now isn’t the time to argue. He rounds the shrine, standing breathless in front of the pedestal and pulling out his slate, asking it to take them anywhere at all.</p><p>Nothing happens.</p><p>He hears Impa’s guards on the hill, only seconds behind them.</p><p>Link hits the button on the shrine again, his slate in his other hand, but still the magic won’t activate.</p><p>
  <em>Whatever power you are attempting to harness, if it is of your goddess’s design, it will not work with me in tow.</em>
</p><p>Swallowing down thick fear, Link slips the slate back on his hip. He reaches for his glider and starts running again. This demon really must be part of Ganon’s calamity if the shrines reject him. But there’s no time for questions now. Link narrows his eyes in focus; the cliff’s edge is coming up fast.</p><p><em>Edge</em>, the demon says, though Link doesn’t know why. He’d have to be blind to miss it.</p><p>He lets his feet run out of ground, nothing but open air underneath as the glider catches all of his weight and sends him soaring across the open sky. Lantern Lake glistens below. Blue water rushes miles under him and then breaks away into endless green, the wilds of Hyrule unfolding to welcome him home.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Ghirahim had spent three millennia in the grip of that black rock. Three thousand years of cold stone, vague lights, of solitude.</p><p>The unfurling forestry, the far off fading waters, the blues and blacks and reds of the world under the setting sun. There are snow-covered mountains to the east, what can only be the aforementioned Death Mountain spearing into the skyline far north, and endless grass in every other direction. Ghirahim drinks it in, along with the sweet scent of pollen in this higher air; selfishly, for a quiet moment he will bury to the depths of his ancient soul, he allows himself to be grateful.</p><p>Link glides down slowly as they lose height. His boots land them in some sort of wetland, moss soaked with water and the smell of insect and amphibian life harshly present.</p><p><em>You neglected to tell me your intent was to bring me to a swamp</em>, Ghirahim says. <em>Is this ‘Death Mountain’ still an option?</em></p><p>He hears the blond huff through his nose, and is given a flat glare for his efforts.</p><p>
  <em>Kidding, of course. …Unless it contains hot springs? If there are hot springs, then return me at once to that hag. </em>
</p><p>Link continues to glare.</p><p><em>You may think I jest, but I </em>assure<em> you, there is no better pleasure than steaming water on naked skin.</em></p><p>“Are you done?” he says, his cheeks a rosey pink that could be nothing more than reflected rays of the setting sun. “Come out. We need to talk.”</p><p><em>We </em>are<em> talking. Perhaps you merely wish to gaze upon my magnificent form? </em></p><p>Frowning, the blond pulls Ghirahim from his back. He holds the sword out over the swamp water below them. “Come out, or I drop you.”</p><p>Ghirahim laughs, a light clinking sound he has not made in years. <em>Very well. Who am I to deny you your heart's desires?</em></p><p>He lifts himself from his blade, diamonds blinking in and out of existence until he stands in front of Link. Smirking, Ghirahim pulls himself into a bow, the front of his red cloak dipping down, one hand over his chest. His white shoes – hardly more than pretty fabric stretched over his feet – sink into the porous ground beneath him, a sight and feeling that makes his skin crawl. He can magic the mess away later easily enough; yet why a swamp of all places? Could the hero not have brought them somewhere less… wet? He had seen firmer ground in every direction from far up in the air.</p><p>“How may I be of service to you?”</p><p>The look he’s given in return is both highly irritated and plainly perplexed. Thick blond eyebrows lift and contort in waves of meaning more expressive than most can manage verbally. Lips part – rounded white teeth shining, two on the bottom slightly pointed – but no sound is forthcoming.</p><p>Ghirahim smirks, waving a hand around in a fluid motion as he speaks. “While your silence at the sight of me is warranted,” his smirk widens when he sees pale blue eyes following his hand, and the demon sends out a cascade of diamonds to chase his dancing fingers, “If you have inquiries, boy, you had better get to them quickly. My patience ran dry eons ago.”</p><p>“Are you controlling me?” The Hylian practically barks the question at him. Any eloquence his ancestor held over speech – which had not been a great deal – had obviously been lost through time.</p><p>Ghirahim steps in closer, ignoring to the best of his ability the wet sound of the swamp at his feet. The slightest widening of wrong-coloured eyes, the tensing of strong shoulders; the demon bends down at his hips as he lets one finger set itself gently beneath that stiff jaw. He tilts the face up towards him, fingernail digging into peach skin, and he smiles with all of his teeth.</p><p>“You mean am I <em>beguiling</em> you into an affinity for my company?”</p><p>Forced to look up at him and still frowning sternly, Link nods against his finger.</p><p>Ghirahim’s mouth falls into a more placid smile, teeth disappearing. “By asking the question,” he says, and begins drawing a line from the hero’s chin down his throat, “are you not admitting you harbor such an affinity?”</p><p>He feels it under his finger when Link swallows, the bob of his adam’s apple clearly visible.</p><p>“Do you feel so enthralled?” Ghirahim asks, his own voice a low whisper, and he drags his finger further down. He stops at Link’s chest, pressing into his sternum. When the blond makes a noise far too much like a whimper, Ghirahim’s mouth is pulled into a smile, one that displays all of his teeth again.</p><p>Light eyes scan his face in every direction, skirting across his nose and cheeks and forehead as if they had never seen a face before.</p><p>Likely, he had not seen one as lovely as Ghirahim’s own.</p><p>“Perhaps,” the demon starts, pressing his finger harder into the blond’s sternum, looking down at him, “there is somewhere more useful those rough Hylian hands wish to grasp?”</p><p>Link’s awe-struck expression folds into a frown, sudden irritation obvious. Ghirahim can’t help his widening grin.</p><p>But then said hands open and with that leveled glare Link releases the hilt of his blade.</p><p>Before it can hit the swampy water beneath them and plunge Ghirahim’s senses into slime and muck, the demon catches the sword in his unoccupied hand. The hold is awkward, so he sends it to the hero’s back with a wave of diamonds.</p><p>Link looks behind him at the suddenly-sheathed sword with surprise.</p><p>“Ah,” Ghirahim says, forcing that blond head back around with a finger returned beneath his chin, “I see you have an attitude under pressure. Perhaps I should relieve some of your tension?” He trails his finger down a peach throat again, watching the muscles flex under his light touch. “You have saved my life, afterall.”</p><p>Blue eyes that match the sky above them widen, but it is not fear reflecting through them. Link is looking at him, waiting, his lips parted. His throat bobs again as he swallows. His gaze falls to Ghirahim’s teeth, his chest, and then his eyes, in that order.</p><p>Taking a step back, the demon runs his fingers through the length of his white hair, moving it to the side of his face only for it to fall back to the front. “Consider that the sole reason I do not cut your throat for dropping me.”</p><p>Link’s heavy eyebrows fall to a frown, and he says, “Answer the question.”</p><p>Ghirahim sighs. “Any attraction you feel towards me is not only wholly understandable,” he closes his eyes with a small smile, “but entirely natural.”</p><p>“How can I trust you?”</p><p>Ghirahim opens his eyes to stare placidly at the idiot before him. “A question you should have asked before you leapt out that window, I’m sure.” He turns his head away, staring mildly at the far-off hills and treeline of an unknown forest, in an unknown world. He had not yet repaid his life-debt, but he does not need to be attached at the hip to this emulation to do so. Ghirahim can follow him from afar until his life is inevitably at risk; surely that would be much less complicated. “It matters little. There is no need for you to burden yourself with my presence, though I know I am a sight to behold. You may be on your way, and I will be on mine. We–”</p><p>The sound of something whizzing through the air cuts his speech short. The dull, thudding impact of metal tearing through flesh comes next, all of it too fast.</p><p>Link makes a strangled noise, pitching to the side and clutching his arm in obvious pain; Ghirahim catches the sight of red blood running thickly down peach skin, the wooden shaft of an arrow protruding at its origin.</p><p>“<em>Ghira—</em>”</p><p>Ghirahim enters the sword without a thought.</p><p><br/>--</p><p>
  <em><br/>Five of them, four coming down the hills on your left. </em>
</p><p>Link hears the voice ringing in his ears. The arrow in his upper arm throbs. Worse than the pain is that it’ll get in his way if he doesn’t deal with it. He’d learned that the hard way. Already moving to give himself cover behind a wide tree, Link props his arm against said tree and uses his other hand to snap the arrow’s shaft in half. He’s shaking from current and expected pain; taking a deep grunting breath, he breaks it as close to his skin as he can.</p><p><em>The archer is here</em>, Ghirahim says. A chime rings out, coming from high up on the Rikoka Hills. A noise shouldn’t be so easy to pinpoint, but Link knows exactly where that sound signals to. A tall tree with wide branches. He can barely see the spot of red.</p><p>Kakariko guards.</p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p>
  <em>Yes?</em>
</p><p>“These people are my friends,” Link says, pulling the blade from his back slowly. He looks down at it. The dull metal soaks up the sun, no reflection or refraction. Not knowing where else to look, he looks at the red gem. Not sure what to expect, he says, “We can’t kill them.”</p><p>
  <em>I wonder if they hold such reservations?</em>
</p><p>Choosing not to reply, Link asks a question instead. “Can you,” he starts, eyes on the approaching guards. He knows one of them. Dorion. One of the guards who always stands at the bottom of the stairs leading to Impa’s cabin. “Can you do that thing when they fire an arrow?”</p><p><em>Your articulation is incompetent. By ‘thing,’ do you mean this?</em> A chime rings out.</p><p>Link nods.</p><p>Using this, he’s able to dodge every shot while meeting the four guards with his sword. Dorion gives him a troubled look, but Link can only shake his head in response. He wants to tell them that it’s okay, that he knows what he’s doing, but right now that wouldn’t be completely true.</p><p>A different sounding chime rings out, darker and from behind him. Link spins in an arc and his sword meets a smaller one, blocking a thrust aimed at his head.</p><p>It had been the hilt, not the blade.</p><p>“Please go,” he manages, lowering his sword for a moment. “I don’t want to hurt you.”</p><p><em>Raise me, you idiotic whelp!</em> Ghirahim snaps, and to Link’s surprise the sword in his hands pulls back up in front of him.</p><p>“We are only here for the sword. Hand it over, and we will have no reason to fight.”</p><p>Link shakes his head.</p><p>The rest of the fight doesn’t last long. As skilled as the guards are, they spend most of their days standing around. Link has spent every hour of every day fighting since he woke up in that shrine. He might not be artful at it, but he’s effective. Using the flat side of his sword, he knocks them unconscious one by one.</p><p><em>This tactic is entirely dissatisfying,</em> Ghirahim says once all four are lying in the swampy water.</p><p>“Is the archer still there?”</p><p>
  <em>No. The coward has fled.</em>
</p><p>Nodding, Link slips the sword onto his back, still through the loop of the shirt. He needs a real sheath – and a new shirt. Crouching down, he begins to drag the Kakariko guards out of the water, lying them one by one on their backs on firmer grass.</p><p>Meanwhile, the demon talks in his head.</p><p>
  <em> Your form is terrible. You may have won but you fight like a child. You expend unnecessary energy, you continuously neglect openings, and your feet beg for proper positioning.</em>
</p><p>Wiping his hands clean of dirt and mud, Link looks down at the four soldiers. Since the archer had gone back, someone will come soon. They’ll be alright.</p><p>
  <em>Are you listening to me?</em>
</p><p>When Link doesn’t respond, the demon emerges from the blade, diamonds disappearing as he comes to stand beside him on the swamp’s shore.</p><p>“I do not like being ignored, boy.”</p><p>Link looks up at him, at his kohl-lined eyes, his glistening blue diamond earring, the diamond-pattern curving around the opening of his cloak, the white skin-tight clothing, and the vibrant red mantle that frames him like a work of art.</p><p><em>I’ll bet not</em>, he thinks.</p><p>“We need to move,” Link says, readjusting the sword on his back. “She’ll send more.”</p><p>He thinks about hiding in the Moor Garrison Ruins, but that would be too obvious. The Sheh Rata Shrine is a bit further north of that. But it looks like that’s not going to work, either.</p><p>East. He’ll take them towards Hyrule Field, then into the Faron Grasslands. Even if Impa tracks them that far, she doesn’t have enough guards to trap them.</p><p>“<em>We</em>?” Ghirahim repeats with a long look down his angular nose. This brings Link out of his thoughts. He starts, blinking up at dark eyes.</p><p>When the demon doesn’t say anything else, Link turns to face him fully. “They’ll keep coming after you.”</p><p>“Let them,” he says with an easy wave of a gloved hand. “It is of no concern to you. As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted, this is where we part ways.” A snap of his fingers has the black sword on Ghirahim’s back instead. Link feels the lack of weight like a jolt. “My deliverance from that rock is greatly appreciated, as was your aide in escaping that old woman, yet I must now depart.”</p><p>He’s given another one of those fancy bows, all red and gold and diamond-clad. His white hair almost shimmers.</p><p>Link squints up at the man in front of him. Nothing makes any sense. If Ghirahim is part of Ganon’s calamity, if he’s really evil like Impa had said, why had he helped Link fight off those monsters, and the guards now? Why ‘beguile’ him, only to help him and then leave? What did he get out of it?</p><p>Why, when they first met, did Ghirahim bring him in close?</p><p>Why did pulling his sword out of that obsidian feel like finding a piece of himself? Link had woken up a month ago with no memories of who he was or what he was supposed to do. All he had was a heavy weight in his chest and the nagging feeling like he was forgetting something really important. He hadn't remembered Zelda, Daruk, Revali, Mipha, or Urbosa; still doesn’t remember most of them.</p><p>But his heart knows them. His heart remembers.</p><p>He’s always listened to it, ever since his bare feet hit the cold stone floor of that shrine, and he’s not about to stop now.</p><p><br/>--</p><p><br/>Ghirahim turns to leave, heading west, when a hand is wrapped around his wrist.</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>He scoffs. “I have done quite enough of that.”</p><p>“Are you really Ganon’s sword?”</p><p>“Yes.” He focuses on the trees in the distance. Once he repaid his debt, he could go anywhere. He could find those hot springs and have himself a nice, long, well-deserved soak. At least until Impa’s goons came after him and tossed him into that mountain. How long could he run? How many could he fight? A great deal, certainly.</p><p>The hand around his wrist feels much the same as it does around his hilt.</p><p>“Do you <em>want</em> to be?”</p><p>“Do you suppose I’d be prattling about in a swamp if I did?” Ghirahim nearly spits at him.</p><p>He will not return begging like a dog.</p><p>He will not return at all.</p><p>“If…” From the corners of his eyes the demon watches that mouth try to form its way around words. He wonders at how difficult this Link finds the task. “Do you know what I need to do?” the blond asks. “From me talking to Impa?”</p><p>“Oh, it was simple enough to garner.” Ghirahim twirls a hand in front of his face, looking bored, still half-turned away from the Hylian. “Slay the villain, and something about taming beasts of your goddess’s divine creation.”</p><p>Link nods. That mouth churns uselessly, but at length he manages some words.</p><p>They are, unfortunately, words born of complete insanity.</p><p>“If you…” The fingers on his wrist twitch and then they let go. “You could come with me,” he says, his voice some small thing weeding its way through the air between them.</p><p>The slight expansion of dark pupils is his only reaction. Ghirahim feels cold, which should mean very little to a sword.</p><p>Determination washes out any insecurity remaining on Link’s face. He nods, and then walks around to stand in front of the demon. “Come with me,” Link says, looking up at him. “If you help me save Hyrule, no one would think you’re… bad.”</p><p>Ghirahim’s breathing becomes shallow.</p><p>Link, unaware, continues speaking. His words seem to come as soon as the thoughts form in his head. “Impa would have to… She’d leave you alone.” His hands rub at the front of his thighs, merely for something to do while his mouth works. “If we defeat Ganon, if you help me, she won’t have a reason to chase you.”</p><p>For a moment pale blue eyes go darker, sun-kissed blond turns to the colour of warm sand, and Ghirahim is standing helplessly in front of that tower again.</p><p>He grinds his teeth until the image leaves his head. It was nothing. A similar disposition resulting in a similar mindset.</p><p>“If not, she’ll never stop. I… I know Impa.”</p><p>The boy has clearly lost his mind, offering something like this to someone who has been plainly shown to be his enemy; perhaps all that divinity in his head has rotted his weak brain.</p><p>Yet Ghirahim’s options are… limited. The Goddess will not hurt her hero, not before his duty to her is complete. The demon would pose no threat to him as of yet. And it is true: without Impa and her warriors, he would be free to roam this world. He could seek out those hot springs. He could claim a strong warrior and slay beasts to his heart’s content. He could throw himself into this vast place and see what delights await him.</p><p>Furthermore, if he managed to vanquish Demise (called 'Calamity Ganon' in this time, apparently; Girahim finds the change in title a bit tasteless) the demon would be free of his hold. He can fight it easily enough – has felt it soaked through this world since the moment he’d woken up from his lengthy slumber. Yet there’s no denying it would be preferable not to need to. The fact of their connection feels like an unwanted touch across Ghirahim’s spine.</p><p>Perhaps then, it would be wise to use this boy. Slay his Master and be rid of this connection, at the very least until his own inevitable death.</p><p>“You do realize,” Ghirahim says, looking down at him, “My presence will add a great burden to your quest.”</p><p>Link merely shrugs.</p><p>Having been anticipating more of a reply than that, Ghirahim searches for some way out of this. Some way to force the Hylian to rescind the offer.</p><p>“What your Impa said is true. I <em>am</em> a demon, and I was forged by your nemesis.”</p><p>Again, the blond only shrugs.</p><p>Ghirahim opens his mouth, and then he closes it. “You are far too trusting,” he says with a sneer.</p><p>Link shakes his head. Finally words come from his lips, though he is obviously beginning to tire from speech. “Who said anything about trust?” Light blue eyes burn suddenly and brightly, and Ghirahim is met with a gaze as intense as midsummer heat. “If you’re lying, I’ll throw you into Death Mountain myself.”</p><p>Ghirahim glares down at him, frustration flowering as if forced into bloom by that burning sun.</p><p>With that, Link holds both his hands out, palms up and waiting. The broken shaft of an arrow still sticks out of one arm, yet this does not seem to bother him any.</p><p>“I will <em>not</em> be ordered around, boy.”</p><p>Blinking as if surprised, Link says simply, “Please.”</p><p>Irritated beyond all measure, Ghirahim snaps his fingers, sending himself into his sword and that sword to rest resolutely in calloused Hylian hands.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Great Fairy Kaysa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know the blupees don't actually lead to fairies, but the first time I found a fairy I followed one of those lil guys to it coincidentally. So I went with it. </p><p>Some of the lines are taken straight from the game - obviously I didn’t write these. </p><p>I keep trying to fit this in the prose but I haven't yet: There was no Ganon 10,000 years ago in this. There was just Ganon 100 years ago. It's already hard enough sewing sws and botw togther, didn't need that in the mix.</p><p>I like this one ;v; I hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Resting inside the dark of his blade, Ghirahim surveys the changing landscape around them. Link does not walk fast, but the stamping of his feet is constant and the nighttime greenery shifts in time with his pace.</p><p>The wetlands lead to a wide river, the name of which the demon has no means of knowing. Link slips into its cool waters in the dead of night, still without a shirt, and swims in silence. If the weight of his sword hinders him any, the boy takes it with inflexible determination, soft pants filling the dark air. The river water is unpleasant on the steel of his blade, although Ghirahim has been inside similar depths; it is cold without being unbearable, and dumb glassy-eyed fish flit away from them as the boy makes his way across.</p><p>It seems that this iteration of the Skyloft hero does a great deal of traversing. They have been on the move since that afternoon, walking, climbing, swimming, and running. Certainly the Link he had fought climbed mountains and slept in trees, but this iteration seems to breathe with the life of the wilds. Trees and grass and infernal insects offer some sort of catharsis to him, filthy as they are, whereas the Skyloft hero had been needlessly attached to his precious home in the clouds.</p><p>Scowling in the recesses of his mind, the demon suffocates the thought. </p><p><em>If you help me save Hyrule, no one would think you’re… bad.</em> </p><p>How laughably ignorant. The hero will see soon enough how great a burden it is to travel with one outside of Hylia’s good graces. Inevitably he will discover that a <em>demon</em> sword can be of no use to him. This partnership will not outlast the week. </p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p>He chimes to indicate he is listening.</p><p>“There's a wizzrobe,” Link whispers, holding himself against the rock-lined shore of the river like some form of aquatic bug. “It shoots ice. Fast. I’ve only fought one, before.”</p><p>
  <em>Do not get yourself frozen. It will freeze me as well, and I will become... disagreeable. </em>
</p><p>Link laughs softly, an undercurrent of nerves through the sound. “You're saying you can be something else?” </p><p>
  <em>Watch your smart mouth, boy. </em>
</p><p>Once removed from the cool river, Link encroaches upon this 'wizzrobe.' Yet he moves with all the stealth of a <em>moblin</em>. His footsteps are naught but awkward blunders, and his shoulders are so tight Ghirahim fears he may pop from pressure. </p><p>Whatever his ancestry, whatever his personal history, the boy clearly has no tactical training. It seems an odd choice on his goddess’s part – one would think she would bless him with that, at the very least – yet Ghirahim has always known her to be unforgiving. </p><p>The Hylian slides noisily down a stone wall, dropping inside some sort of pit surrounded by stone ruins. The wizzrobe, a faceless creature harnessing bright magic, spots him immediately. As Link lands he pulls Ghirahim's blade up over his head, making the first strike with the full force of his body.</p><p>It’s an awkward attack at best; at worst he is unorganized and loud and <em>horrible</em>. Oh but how the cut of fresh flesh delights! Ghirahim feels his gem radiate with heat as Link plunges him inside the beast's torso. It is freezing and dull yet still <em>alive</em> in some sense and reactionary to physical harm. The monster does not bleed as it is cut, but cool magic slips out over the demon’s blade, coating dark steel in ice and light and power. </p><p>Ghirahim chimes at the wizzorbe's outstretched hand, indicating for Link to stab at the opening below it and into its side. Although he is late to his queue, Link obliges, and pierces Ghirahim's blade through the monster's body. </p><p>The beast squeals and dies in an explosion of ice. A swirling mist of violet escapes its corpse, dissipating into the night sky. </p><p>Link, panting raucously, holds his hilt with both hands; the tip of his blade drops, yet is held aloft from the ground. </p><p>“Woah.”</p><p>Ghirahim, lost in the thrill of killing, does not hear him. </p><p>
  <em>What? </em>
</p><p>“Nothing.” </p><p>The Hylian slips his blade through the shirt-loop on his back. It is not a comfortable perch.</p><p>Turning on his heels in a quick motion, the blond attaches himself to the flat stone walls around them, and climbs back out of the pit like a small golden insect. Ghirahim has witnessed him perform such a feat no less than fifteen times today. He neglects to climb anywhere of any notable altitude, yet with the way he clings to stone like moss the demon suspects he could climb any height he desired. </p><p>Once out of the pit, Link walks around the cylindrical ruins, and stops before a great glowing structure. </p><p>This is one of Hylia’s temples in this time, Ghirahim is certain; he can practically feel her radiating from its stone. It had refused to work for whatever purpose Link sought during their escape. Did he expect it to be different now? </p><p>Doubtless these dome-shaped structures hold trials for him to overcome. Inane tests of strength or wit or purity of heart. They had always seemed to Ghirahim a great waste of time. Why put so many obstacles in her hero’s path? </p><p>“This is a shrine,” Link says, tugging on the ill-fitting belts across his bare chest. “I took you in one, when you were… asleep, I think.” Ghirahim feels his sword being loosened from its place on a warm back. “It hurt you, so.” </p><p> In a flurry of diamonds the demon appears corporeal, looming over the shorter man. </p><p>“Have I not told you twice?” Ghirahim loops a finger into one of the belts around the Hylian’s chest. He is about to tug harshly, but searing red skin claims his eyes. Leaving his fingers placed around the horrid brown leather, Ghirahim leans down, close to pale blue. “Do <em>not</em> drop me.” </p><p>After a moment of stunned staring, the blond shakes his head. </p><p>“It almost… melted you.” </p><p>“I am not so weak.” </p><p>“It isn’t about that.” </p><p>“You will not leave me here.” </p><p>Link shakes his head again, the repeated action irritating. Heedless of the finger looped around the belt, he bends down and places the sword against the wall of the shrine. Fingers pass gently, likely unknowingly, across the top of the blade. </p><p>Then the Hylian turns around. Unresponsive, he steps past the demon and walks towards the shrine’s pedestal, his belt slipping free of gloved fingers listlessly.</p><p>Ghirahim grinds his teeth. With a wave of his hand he intends to appear on the shrine’s platform itself, cutting off the Hylian’s path. However when the flood of diamonds dissipates Ghirahim is standing <em>behind</em> Link, his white form-fitting boots on the grass. </p><p>Bristling at the sensation of blocked magic, he rolls his shoulders with a grimace, as if trying to stave off the feeling. </p><p>With no other choice left to him, the demon performs the degrading task of <em> walking</em>, moving across the grass only enough to glean the side of a peach face. He lifts a hand up near his own ashen one and curls it into a claw as he speaks. “I will beat you within an inch of your life, boy, if you continue to assume I am incapable.” </p><p>The focused expression of a side-profile is his only response. Link sets his hands on the pedestal of the shrine, pressing some button on its front. His eyes remain trained on his task. </p><p>“Take me with you, or I shall carve that pure heart from your chest and soak this very grass with its blood.” </p><p>“No,” Link says, pulling some square contraption from the belt around his hips.</p><p>“No?” Ghirahim repeats, the very word seeming to coil tight around his chest, shaking frustration through him. “<em>No</em>?” Taking a sure step forwards, he comes to the base of the shrine. He all but stabs one gloved finger beneath the boy’s chin. With force the demon turns that face fully towards him, blue eyes lagging behind. They lock onto Ghirahim’s eventually, their paleness bright with the orange glow of the shrine. </p><p>Yet the angle is not correct.</p><p>Ghirahim, standing on the grass, is intolerably shorter than the blond, who is standing on the shrine’s platform. With a darkening expression he presses his thumb to the front of his chin, curls his forefinger beneath it, and pulls, tilting Link’s face to decline towards his own. </p><p>“Do not suppose you can refuse me,” the demon whispers, digging his grip into the hard bones of his chin. </p><p>The quiet call of nighttime amphibians and insects surrounds them, some cacophony of sound Ghirahim should not find as distracting as he does. It is nothing. Being locked in stone, drowning in half-awareness within his sword for so long; it is only natural that sounds and lights and all matter of sensation would seem louder. It will fade to normalcy in days, he is sure. </p><p>Link frowns down at him. Clearly the blond must think Ghirahim is only some minor distraction; peach fingers wrap around his wrist, holding it still, and he wrenches his chin free of a steely grip. Wordless, Link returns to his task, setting that square contraption on the pedestal.</p><p>“You will NOT ignore me, you ingratiating <em>child</em>,” he growls under his breath, nerves crawling up his arms and causing him to contort in fluid movement. Ghirahim snaps his fingers. He forces the spell to work, ignoring the frazzled magic that cracks through his joints as he appears beside the hero on Hylia’s <em>blessed</em> shrine. </p><p>“I’m not,” Link says, and pushes another button on that pedestal, focused gaze remaining on his task. </p><p>The shrine quakes and stone behind them slides away, revealing a platform that the demon can only assume leads down into the depths of Hyrule. </p><p>Turning to look at him, the hero folds his arms. His expression is singularly determined. Concentrating. Deliberating. <em>Infuriating</em>. “You can’t come. Not until–” </p><p>In a flash of black light and with a snarled snappish groan, Ghirahim’s saber appears in his hand. Using his free one he claims Link’s shoulder, pushing him back harshly against the shrine wall behind him. His head slams against solid stone, the force fogging his sightful eyes with pain for a moment. Ghirahim leans in close. He licks the length of his blade before resting it on a peach throat, his smile elongating like a serpent. </p><p>Pressed between the saber and the shrine wall, the first real spark of fear flits through blue eyes. Lines of agitation etch in their corners, the subtlest shift from focused-passivity to alighted agitation. The despair in those seeing-eyes is new. The sense in them, the fact of their functionality, flooded with fear. Ghirahim continues to smirk sickly. He slips his tongue out again, licking his saber on the opposite edge from Link’s neck, and presses in further, his knee pushing into one warm thigh. </p><p>“How…” Link starts, the back of his head hitting the shrine again as the demon moves in closer, the blade skirting against his throat. The blond’s wide eyes dart back and forth. He swallows thick enough to be audible. </p><p>“You will <em>not</em> deny me,” Ghirahim says through a foreboding hiss. “If I am to suffer your company, you <em>will</em> make use of me.” </p><p>Link looks along the black form of his saber, just under his chin, licking his own lips in his silence. “How does...” he starts, “How does a sword have a sword?” </p><p>Ghirahim can only stare for a few moments, the words seeming to lack all sense. At length he hears himself say, “<em>What?"</em> – though the word lacks any poise. </p><p>Link narrows his eyes up at him into an annoyed glare. “You’ve been making me do all the fighting,” he says. And then, as if it is an accusation, he asks, “Can you use that?” </p><p>The demon nearly sputters. Nearly. He restrains himself and turns a dark sneer down at the Hylian. Had he not been afraid? Was that shock, and not horror at all? </p><p>“Of course I can <em>use</em> it. What a moronic question. There is no purpose in a blade that cannot be used.” </p><p>Wide, endless blue blinks up at him, exactly thrice. There’s no glare left, the thick brows unfurrowed and all the long lines around the corners of his eyes relaxed. Ghirahim is merely being looked at. Then, saber still now aloft of his throat, Link nods. </p><p><em>Okay then</em>, the action seems to say.</p><p>Two peach hands push into his arm, forcing the saber back another fraction of an inch. The blond dips down and slips out of the space Ghirahim had him trapped inside, sneaking under his arm. He steps neatly inside the stone door of the shrine that had slid open, holding that square contraption in one hand. </p><p>The demon turns in a vicious arc, saber gripped like a threat in his hand. Perhaps he is not yet fully awake. To allow some <em>child</em> to slip out of his grasp, to have left such an obvious opening…! </p><p>Blue light begins to surround the cracks of the shrine’s entrance. Growling under his breath, Ghirahim snaps his fingers once again. It stings to use his magic standing on this holy monument, but he tears through the pain. He sends himself in front of the Hylian again, looming over him in the dark of the shrine’s alcove. </p><p>“Listen well, boy.” Ghirahim says into widening blue eyes. The demon sets three fingers on his upper arm and lets them trace down it, pressing nails in hard. “You will not find a stronger sword than I. Whatever asinine rewards your goddess has for you in this trial, I assure you will pale in comparison to all that I am capable of.” Ghirahim slips his fingers around lean muscles, stopping at his wrist. Link’s pink lips part in silence. Faint breaths fall from his mouth. </p><p>His hand twitches when the demon slides one finger across his palm. </p><p>The Hylian’s mouth works itself open and closed, but no sound spills from it for a long moment. “It’s…” Link stops, closing his eyes. Ghirahim grinds his teeth through his waiting. “I already know.” </p><p>“You already know <em>what?"</em> The demon hisses. </p><p>Link shakes his head. Ghirahim feels irritation claw at him while he stares at those shut eyelids. He grabs the wrist under his fingers, his grip rough enough to cut off circulation. </p><p>Blue eyes flash open, alight with surprised pain. </p><p>“You are foolish to think you have a choice in the matter.” </p><p>Blond eyebrows furrow, his bottom lip pulled up into a riled frown. Link wrenches his wrist free of that grip; he is stronger than Ghirahim had expected. Before the demon can do anything about it the ground under Link’s feet begins to move.</p><p>The platform he’s on is lowering. Link folds his arms, still frowning, his gaze unwavering.</p><p>Ghirahim attempts to send his sword in a wave of diamonds onto Link’s back, but the goddess’s infernal magic blocks him. The platform disappears, taking the Hylian along with it. </p><p>The demon snarls, coiling his fingers at his side and around his saber. </p><p>“Very well, boy,” he says, directing his venomous tone to the darkness of the shrine. “Enjoy your inevitable evisceration at your goddess’s hands.” </p><p>“I’ll be right back!” Comes a distant reply. </p><p>Ghirahim curls his hands into a fist, anger boiling over. This whelp can <em>not</em> expect him to wait. Demon Lord Ghirahim waits for no one. </p><p>Growling under his breath, he turns harshly away from the closed platform and takes a seat on the shrine’s edge. The foolish mortal will pay for his transgression. He will tie him to this very shrine with the belts he dons to carry him and carve out his heart, slowly. He will sit atop him, staring down into those sightful sky blue eyes and stab him through the gut, watch the blood leak from his mouth. His screams will fill the hills around them. It will be a <em>beautiful</em> sight. </p><p>Smiling, Ghirahim continues to muse to himself, crossing one leg over the other. Sounds of pain dance through his head. Oh he will have his revenge, and it will be sweet. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link reaches the priest in a matter of minutes. It was a combat trial, which was a bit hard with only a bow and his bombs, but he got the job done; stayed hidden behind pillars and took his time lining up shots. The priest does what they normally do, no lines about cleansing any impurities, and then his trail is over. Taking the spirit orb, he exits the shrine.</p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p>The name feels good in his mouth. Link wrinkles his nose at the thought. It’s kind of a weird thing to think, but it’s true.</p><p>The demon is sitting on the ledge, one leg crossed over the other. He’s smiling when he cranes his neck to look at Link. But it isn’t a smile at all. Definitely not. </p><p>He seems a bit… unhinged. In general. </p><p>But Ghirahim hasn’t actually hurt him, no matter what he threatens. Link’s not afraid, not even when that saber had been at his throat. Somehow he knows Ghirahim won’t hurt him. Not… like that. Not like this. </p><p>“And where is the marvelous weapon your goddess has bestowed upon you?” He asks, waving a hand languidly through the air. Link follows it with his eyes. “Show me, so that I may laugh at its doubtless <em>pathetic</em> inferiority.” </p><p>Walking off of the shrine, Link stands in front of where Ghirahim is sitting, nighttime air cooling his skin after the sweat he’d worked up minutes ago. He holds out one hand, waiting.</p><p>“What do you expect me to do? Come running to you whenever you so choose to find me worthy of wielding?” He sneers at the offered hand. “I have thought up several distinct ways to end your worthless life. Would you prefer a slow guttural death or shall I get it over with quickly and slice off your pretty blond head?” </p><p>Link’s lips drop open, stunned for a moment. </p><p>“Hurry and decide,” the demon continues, his saber in his hand again, admiring the sharp blade as he speaks, “so that I may make a corpse of you before the night is over.” </p><p>He closes his mouth. Silently, he walks over to Ghirahim’s sword where he’d left it resting against the shrine. Link hefts it up, not sheathing it, and holds it tight. He takes a slow breath, staring down at the red gem. It’s easier to talk when he’s not looking at the person he’s trying to talk to. This has always been true. But it’s twice as hard to talk when he’s looking at the <em>everything</em> that makes up this spirit. </p><p>Hyrule Field is still half a day away, and he needs to sleep. But. “There are lizalfos over there,” Link says, nodding towards the west. Just across the rolling hills, before the Mabe Village Ruins, there’s a horde of them. He’d run into them on his way from the Plateau to Kakariko Village, six days after he’d woken up.</p><p>
  <em>Lizalfo blood is revolting. </em>
</p><p>When he turns to look at Ghirahim, there’s no one there. The space he’d occupied on the shrine’s ledge is empty. </p><p>Link looks down at the sword. “Wizzrobes, then?”</p><p>
  <em>Do you think me so easily pacified? I am not some pet whose affections you may reclaim by offering treats. </em>
</p><p>It isn’t like that. Link is doing this for himself, too. He hadn’t liked going into the shrine alone, and he’d liked fighting the shrine’s guardian alone even less. After only five days with the demon sword, being without him feels… It leaves his hands itching. </p><p>Link doesn’t know how to say any of that, though. He doesn't know what Ghirahim might think. This is still new, and he’s already really pissed off; Link doesn’t want to make that worse, even if the anger is unjustified. </p><p>Yawning, he asks, “What do you want to do, then?”</p><p>There’s a long silence. </p><p>“Ghirahim?”</p><p>The gem glows with a dull red light, and then that sonorous voice rings vividly through his head. </p><p>
  <em>Take me to slay beasts, boy, and I will consider letting you live. But should you ever discard me again I will not hesitate to run your veins dry of blood. </em>
</p><p>Link nods, too tired to argue. They’ll have to talk about the shrines. But his mouth’s not about to work right now and the demon clearly isn’t in the mood. </p><p>Yawning again, he turns on his toes and starts to walk north. There are three wizzrobes that circle the bottom of Whistling Hill.  He’s never fought three at once, and normally just fighting one wizzrobe makes him nervous. Moblins and bokoblins, even a few lizalfos, are easy enough. But wizzrobes are fast. </p><p>He’s not afraid right now, though. Ghirahim had killed the last one in two hits, and he’d been cackling about it. </p><p>Link will take them to fight those, and then he’ll set up camp for the night. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Demon swords don’t sleep, apparently. Lying on the cool ground, fire burning bright at the bottom of a lulling grassy hill, Link stares at up Ghirahim. He’s sitting on a tree branch, having sent himself up there in a wave of diamonds. </p><p>“Why would I sleep?” He says, staring passively at his own fingers through moonlight. “How <em>mortal</em>.” </p><p>He’s in a better mood, Link notices. Fighting the wizzrobes had helped. Maybe… in a weird way, the demon sword had just been hungry? Does he eat normal food or…? </p><p>He doesn’t know. Link doesn’t know anything about having a possessed sword for a partner. </p><p>It had been fun, though. The fight. Even though Ghirahim had reminded him, more than once, that he’s a terrible swordsman. </p><p>
  <em>You wield me like an infant holds a toy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your elbows stick out like a baby deer’s wobbling knees. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You strike with the intent of a plank of wood! Where is your passion? </em>
</p><p>It’s not Link’s fault. He does what he can on his own, but if anyone ever taught him how to fight, he has no way of remembering the finer details. Impa had told him he was – <em>is</em> – Zelda’s chosen knight, that he was trained at the palace and was fierce in battle well before that. But he can’t remember any of it. Whatever skill he’d had, it's gone. </p><p>Link breathes out through his nose, looking up at Ghirahim from his place on the grass. What sort of history did they have one-hundred years ago? If Ghirahim belongs to Calamity Ganon, how had they ended up together? <br/>
<br/>
<em>Had</em> they even ended up together? He’s been assuming they had because that hilt feels familiar, but Link’s head is a mess of vague memories. He wants to know for sure. </p><p>“We must hone your skills if you are to–”</p><p>“Were you ever my sword?” The question spills out of his mouth, cutting the demon off. </p><p>Dark eyes gleam down at him, their edges widening barely enough to tell. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>Link waits for more of an explanation, but it doesn't come. Eventually he hears the chime of diamonds. Ghirahim must have disappeared inside the sword. </p><p>Lying next to the dying fire, Link stares at his hands. </p><p>Normally he’s out instantly, but that night it takes him nearly an hour to fall asleep. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Hyrule field is as vast and green as it was the first time Link had travelled through. When he’d gotten the glider and flown off of the Great Plateau, it was the first place he went. The ruins had been fun to explore, though he’d been confused at the time about who and why and where he was. The King had told him about his purpose eventually but he couldn't <em>remember</em> anything, and the world had seemed too huge for him to understand.</p><p>It’s a bit better, now. He has the slate and a few memories. </p><p>Looking down at the map, he sees the marker flash northwest of their current location. Rito Village.</p><p>No matter what Impa thinks, no matter what the sword on his back really is, Link had meant what he’d said. He’ll tame the beasts, save Zelda, save all of Hyrule and kill Ganon. That’s never going to change. </p><p>Rito Village is still a week’s trek away. He’s been there once, but only long enough to meet the Elder and be told to come back with the master sword. Link had never climbed the tower so the map isn’t completed on the slate. He wonders how hard the climb will be with the demon sword. </p><p>Absently, he rubs at the sores burning under the too-small belts. There’s nothing to fight on the tops of the towers, usually, so maybe he can convince Ghirahim to wait at the bottom… </p><p>Remembering the shrine last night, Link huffs. Probably not. </p><p>Well, that’s alright. He’s carried him this far.</p><p>Ghirahim hadn’t been in that treetop when Link had woken up hours ago. Instead he'd been inside his sword, which was leaning against the same tree. As soon as Link had staggered over still half asleep and grabbed the hilt with a yawn, the demon had scathing words for him: </p><p>
  <em>The sun has been up for no less than three hours. Is it permissible for the apparent Hylian Hero to slumber through his destiny? </em>
</p><p>Link had glared down at the black blade. </p><p>‘We were up late so <em>you–</em> for you,’ he’d said, closing his eyes in frustration. His words never come out right – if they come out at all – and definitely not three minutes after waking up. </p><p>A bright laugh had chimed through his head. <em>Your mouth works as well as your hands, I am beginning to notice. Perhaps I should train both?</em></p><p>Heat had risen to his face, and Link clamped his lips shut tight. He’d slipped Ghirahim through the shirt-made-sheath on his back and stomped towards the river to wash his face. </p><p>After that, he’d found some food and headed east, eating as he walked. Ghirahim had a few more comments, mostly lamenting about how he chewed too loudly or walked too heavy on his feet. But the closer they got to Hyrule Field, the quieter he’d become. </p><p>Now, standing along the western side of the field, the demon hasn’t said a word. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The field Link had brought him to was an ever-expanding stretch of grassland, low rolling hills dotted with white wildflowers and patches of weeds. The flatness of the field allows Ghirahim to see in every direction, his sight heightened further from within his blade. There are red cliffs behind them, at least half a day’s walk away, layered in long slabs of rock like shale. Next to this is a smattering of trees, which grow thinner closer to the center of the fields. A black mountain covered in rivers of lava is to the northeast, which Ghirahim continus to assume is Death Mountain, unless some other more malicious volcano exists in this Hyrule.</p><p>West of that there is a castle. </p><p>It juts out of the earth, pointed towers piercing the mid-morning sky. There are numerous beasts hovering around its spires. Each tower is broken, stone crumbled apart by time or perhaps by intent. Violet mist hangs lowly across all of this blackness, more like floating fire than any sort of cloud. The entire structure is surrounded in black spires, which are dotted with bulbous violet spots as if infected.</p><p>If there had been any doubt in Ghirahim’s mind that this ‘Calamity Ganon’ was his Master, they disappear like smoke. </p><p>He wonders what Demise looks like now, three thousand years after his defeat. This is his first reincarnation assumedly, if his final words had been true.</p><p>Judging by the grandeur of that castle, he has not become any less… ambitious. </p><p>Ghirahim could feel the Demon King from the moment he’d awoken, in a vague and irritating way. An itch he couldn't scratch, some small speck of dust in his eye he couldn’t remove. </p><p>But now, staring at this castle in these endless fields, Ghirahim feels it like a promise. </p><p>“That’s…” </p><p>Gem flickering, the demon is brought out of his thoughts by the sound of an obnoxiously bright voice.</p><p>“That’s Ganon,” the hero says, nodding towards the castle. “After we tame the four Devine Beasts, I have to come back here and fight him.” </p><p><em>I had gathered</em>, is all Ghirahim says in response. Link is walking them northwest, closer and closer to that violet mass of lights and malignant power. </p><p>“Right.” </p><p>
  <em>Why not simply get it over with now? What need have you for divine intervention? If this Ganon is within your reach, let us go put him down like the dog he is.</em>
</p><p>There’s a long silence. Link continues walking, his expression blank, staring straight ahead. Eventually he speaks. His voice is quiet, but not with shyness. </p><p>“...Don’t call him a dog.”</p><p>
  <em>What. </em>
</p><p>“I like dogs.” </p><p>Ghirahim balks within his sword, the gem flashing once as his mind attempts to keep up with such a nonsensical reply. </p><p>
  <em>Has anyone ever told you?  </em>
</p><p>“Told me what?” the blond asks, looking through the left corners of his eyes as if he could look behind him and Ghirahim would be there. </p><p>
  <em>That you are alarmingly incomprehensible. </em>
</p><p>To his surprise, Link laughs. It’s a soft, airy sort of breath, but it is a laugh. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Being out here, close to that castle… It always makes me feel weird. Nervous, I guess. I’m supposed to kill him. Kill <em>all</em> of that. And if I don’t, Zelda dies. We all die. <em>Again</em>.” Ghiahim wonders what that means, but does not interject. This is the most the hero has spoken since their initial meeting. “I can’t screw this up.” He laughs again, clearly nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not very brave for a hero, I know.” </p><p><em>Only fools think bravery to be the absence of fear</em>. </p><p>With a small smile, Link shifts the sword higher onto his back, hands on the belt across his chest. </p><p>The red lines of blistered skin are angrier than they had been yesterday, scabs that had formed overnight reopened. It won't do to have the Hylian felled by some sort of blood infection, and if Ghirahim is going to be mounted on his back, then Link’s aesthetic presentation comes hand in hand with his own. And the demon lord <em>always</em> maintains a flawless appearance. </p><p>
  <em>You need new belts. And a proper way to carry me. Though you are not permitted to cover my blade. I will not sit idle in the dark. </em>
</p><p>Link nods absently. </p><p>
  <em>Are you listening, boy? </em>
</p><p>“Can I ask you something?”</p><p><em>A question that negates itself,</em> Ghirahim says with a suffering sigh. <em>What do you want to know?</em></p><p>“Why… Why aren’t you with Ganon? Did you switch sides, or…”</p><p>He could laugh at the irony. Perhaps there is no more humility left in the world after a question like that. </p><p>Ghirahim has to consider his response carefully. There’s no need to confuse this clueless imitation. What was done in the past is over. That he has no desire to return to his Master is disgraceful, yet a disgrace Ghirahim has accepted, and one this scion need know nothing about. </p><p><em>I am partial to a certain amount of mayhem and terror</em>, Ghirahim says, keeping his tone casual, <em>demon that I am</em>. <em>Yet Demise would temper the world of all of its pleasantries. Absolute authoritarian, you know the type. It sounded dreadfully boring and so I abdicated.</em></p><p>“Demise?</p><p>The word had slipped out, but no matter. It will mean nothing to this Link. </p><p>
  <em>That is the name I know him as.  </em>
</p><p>He nods, his mouth hanging open. Ghirahim really needs to break him of such a habit. </p><p>“You left because it was…. boring?”</p><p>
  <em>Imagine life without hot springs. Or good wine, beautiful clothes, books, music. Demise has no need for such things. It was never clear to me exactly what he desired aside from power, but I knew upon his victory I would be hung on a wall in a world lacking hedonistic pleasures.</em>
</p><p>“...oh.”</p><p>It is not the truth, yet it might as well be now. The rest of it no longer matters, three thousand years after the fact. Ghirahim is alone with his memories. He may shape them into whatever truth he wills. </p><p>
  <em>I have no noble heart, if that is what you’re asking. </em>
</p><p>The hero shrugs. “You’re n–”</p><p>His voice stops dead. His feet do as well. Everything about the boy freezes, even his breathing. Ghirahim knows this stance. He knows the rigidity in the spine, the squared shoulders, the head held high to hear. </p><p>
  <em>What is it? </em>
</p><p>With a shake of his head he turns in an arc, hurrying on light feet towards a tree. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The ground shaking under his boots was the first sign. He can’t see the guardian, but Link knows it’s close. He’d stumbled into one the day he’d jumped off of the Great Plateau, half awake and barely aware of who he was. He didn’t know how to fight them then and he <em>still</em> doesn’t know now. He’d run for his life, hot lasers at his feet and six sharp mechanical legs spidering behind him. </p><p>He needs to find a nook and bury himself in stone walls, wait for the monster to pass; that’s what he’d done the first time. But there’s nothing like that out here. </p><p>Heart racing, Link scurries up a nearby tree. He slips his body out along one large branch, dragging his bare chest across rough wood. It splinters but he doesn't feel it through the adrenaline. The leaves around him are thick.  </p><p><em>Hiding, are we? Now </em> this <em> is unbefitting of a hero. </em></p><p>The tree vibrates. The guardian is getting closer. He presses his chest down along the branch, slamming his eyes shut.</p><p>
  <em>Pathetic.</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t reply. If the guardian hears him up here that red laser eye will hone in and then they’re done for. He sets a finger over his lips, hoping the demon will comply, at least for now.</p><p>He hears a chime in his head but can't tell if it's an affirmative one or an annoyed one.</p><p>The guardian comes crawling over the hill seconds later. Link’s heart jumps up into his throat at the rattling sounds of its legs and the drag of its great body over grass. Memories of the first and only other time he’d seen one come up his throat like bile. The violet fire, the clicking of scuttling metal joints, the absolute aloneness of being its singular target, dizzy from deathsleep and hardly aware of who he was or why he was being attacked. </p><p>
  <em>What has your heart pattering so? </em>
</p><p>The feeling of warm metal on his back, pressing him heavily into the tree, seeps in through his panic. He keeps his eyes shut. He listens to the sounds of claws digging into earth, the electric hum of a charging laser. Had it seen him? </p><p><em>Well that is an awfully large mechanical nightmare, </em> Ghirahim’s sonorous, low voice drifts through his head, his tone dropping lower with some sort of frenzy, <em>But I assure you, Skychild, there is no foe we cannot vanquish.</em></p><p>Link furrows his brows, his mind grinding to halt and eyes opening. “Sky–” </p><p>He’d spoken without meaning to. The guardian, only a meter from the tree, pivots its eye towards him. A red beam connects straight to his mouth. </p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>
  <em>Such language.</em>
</p><p>Once a guardian sees him, it doesn’t unsee him. Link learned that the hard way. He grabs the branch under him, hanging and then dropping to the grass. </p><p>
  <em>Are we finally going to face this beast? </em>
</p><p>Link runs. He runs as fast as he can, which is nothing compared to the six legs that take chase behind him. Where can he go? He tries to think through snapping panic. He can’t use a shrine to teleport away, not with this sword strapped to his back. The weight is slowing him down, too. </p><p>He could go to the ruins, followed the whole way, and maybe dive behind a stone pillar in time.</p><p>He could throw some rocks at it. </p><p>He could stand there and <em>die</em>, too, because that’s probably what’s about to happen. </p><p><em>A warrior who cannot relax during battle deserves to die </em> , Ghirahim says into his ears while Link runs, counting down the seconds before he’s blown to pieces. <em>However, it would be terribly inconvenient for you to die as things are. Your Impa would blame me for your death and all of Hyrule would be on the hunt for the one who slayed their sacred hero.</em></p><p>Hardly hearing him, Link leaps behind a tree, and the guardian unleashes its blast. The trunk explodes apart into chunks of wood in a swarm of violet heat. One of these pieces, on fire and the size of his head, slams into his gut. Link falls onto his back on the grass, skidding across it to a stop.</p><p>The guardian's laser lands on his chest, and Link heaves, gasping down air in lung-stinging mouthfuls. He grabs fitsfuls of grass and dirt and stares his own death in the face. </p><p>
  <em>There are benefits to a sword your own height. </em>
</p><p>Link scrambles to his feet and turns around, breaking into another run, ignoring the bloody scrapes on his torso and searching desperate for anywhere to hide.</p><p>
  <em>Turn around and face this monster, boy! I will NOT be held by one who succumbs to fear. </em>
</p><p>Ghirahim had said something, his words a crystal clear melody like always, but Link is well past the point of listening. He pounds his feet into the grass, panting, not thinking, jaw held tight and head-blind with fear. </p><p>
  <em> What about your precious Zelda? How can you hope to save her if you run from fodder such as this? </em>
</p><p>Still running, Link’s chest goes cold. His pupils widen under bright sunlight. “Zelda,” he says, barely aware of his own voice. </p><p>
  <em>That’s right. She’s trapped in that castle, is she not? Waiting for you.  </em>
</p><p>“Waiting…” Link comes slowly to a stop. His ears are ringing. </p><p>That red dot burns onto his back.</p><p>
  <em>Are you listening now? </em>
</p><p>He nods.</p><p><em>Good</em>. </p><p>Link closes his eyes, breathing deep. Zelda needs him. He <em>can’t</em> be afraid of something like this. She’s all alone with Ganon, she’s been alone with him for a hundred years while Link slept.</p><p>
  <em>You have yet scratched the surface of the power you hold when you wield me. My blade, marvel that it is, can defend as well as inflict unimaginable damage. </em>
</p><p>Somehow, all he can hear is that voice in his head. Link grabs the hilt at his back, pulling the sword in front of him. Eyes still closed, he turns on the balls of his feet, trudging up grass as he faces the guardian. He can feel the pricking heat of that laser over his bare chest. </p><p>
  <em>Such a fluid movement. Where was this swordsman hiding all this time? </em>
</p><p>Taking another deep breath, Link opens his eyes as he brings the sword down over his front. Ghirahim's blade fills his vision. All he can see is matted black steel. </p><p>
  <em>You already know what to do, hero. What need have you for flight?  </em>
</p><p>Ghirahim’s voice seems to fill every part of him, slips down from his mind to bleed through his body. He hisses suddenly, lines of dark pain building under his skin, sinking deeper. Link shivers, hoping the demon won’t notice. The red laser burns brightly over his thudding heart. </p><p>
  <em>Fear is unavoidable, boy. You would be wise to learn how to utilize it lest it rot your blood.  </em>
</p><p>Each heartbeat shakes him, each pound vibrating his brain against his skull, those dark lines pulsing through his veins. </p><p>
  <em>Palm on my blade. </em>
</p><p>Closing his eyes, Link lies his free hand along warm steel. </p><p>
  <em>Good. When I signal you, thrust forward with the flat side. We will destroy this machine with its own power. </em>
</p><p>He tenses, a sudden thought opening his eyes. He stares at black steel. “Is this going to hurt you?” </p><p>
  <em>Now is not the time for your sentimentality. </em>
</p><p>He grips at his hilt. “Ghirahim.” </p><p>
  <em>I am insulted that you would assume a weak beast like this could mar my blade. Now focus! </em>
</p><p>Lips pressed into a thin line, Link closes his eyes again. </p><p>His blood still feels hot. The feeling starts from his hands. A dark heat, some inverse of energy, like he’s being sucked dry even though he’s filled with the sensation. He grits his teeth, fighting against knees begging to collapse. </p><p>A different voice rings inside his head for a moment. <em>Who knows what such a creature would do to your soul with prolonged use?</em></p><p>
  <em>Are you ready? </em>
</p><p>Link nods. He holds the hilt tight, the palm of his other hand still pressed against the flat of the blade, and he waits.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Whatever this machine is, it is filled to the brim with Demise’s energy. Ghirahim can practically <em>smell</em> it, a disgusting stench of pointless hate and malice he knows too well. Loath as he is to admit it, between this contraption and the infected castle in the distance, the call of his Master is strong. </p><p>The machine focuses its magic before it fires. Ghirahim can, for lack of a better term, ‘hear’ its energy before it releases. He knows this magical signature as surely as he knows his own beautiful features. The click of said magic comes, violet light building at the machine’s eye, and he knows the blast is coming. </p><p>
  <em>Now! </em>
</p><p>The hero stomps one foot forward, sturdy and sure, and thrusts his sword out with it. Ghirahim’s blade meets the scorching laser. He pools his own power and sends the shot back towards the machine, reflecting the violet light in a sharp arc. It doubles back and explodes into the beast’s mechanical eye, fire and heat wracking through its stone head.  </p><p>
  <em>Too slow! If you would get it RIGHT, you USELESS Hylian, we could kill this beast in but a single hit! </em>
</p><p>Ghirahim had managed to reflect the majority of the laser, yet some had seeped into his blade. It is revolting to have Demise’s power run through him once again. After three thousand years of its absence, it is repugnant. He does not want it. He does not need it. A trickle of it spills across his gem.</p><p>How far away is that castle? It cannot be but a night’s walk. Perhaps he could find <em>use</em> in taunting Demise, perhaps–  </p><p>“Sorry.” Ghirahim feels the hand at his hilt grip him tighter as Link speaks. “Again. Please.” </p><p>
  <em>‘Please’? How ignoble of you! A swordmaster should not make requests. If we survive your lack of skill I may bleed you dry for weakness alone. </em>
</p><p>Ghirahim turns his attention to that mechanical eye once again.</p><p>
  <em>NOW! </em>
</p><p>This time the useless hero manages to thrust at the right moment, momentum and magic working in perfect unison. Ghirahim meets the violet light, sending all of it back to its source, none of Demise’s energy coursing his blade. </p><p>It sinks directly into the machine’s single eye and in an instant blows the contraption apart. Stone and metal explode. Parts scatter across the field. Fires light all around the grass and snapping sounds of bursting hinges echo in the open air.</p><p>Ghirahim cackles, letting it slide right through the hero’s head. Oh he could <em>not</em> withhold it. Something burns inside him, something bright and wholly his own. </p><p>
  <em> No shield could do this for you, hero. Certainly no other sword. </em>
</p><p>The Hylian’s eyes are open, blinking at the mess of metal and stone and fire. He’s holding Ghirahim with both hands. One is on the hilt, the other on the blade, the grip weak in the wake of their victory. </p><p>
  <em>This is only the surface of the power you hold! I can yet do more. There is nothing to be afraid of, for none are more terrifying than I, Demon Lord Ghirahim! </em>
</p><p>Link looks down at the sword, fingers flexing.</p><p>“You’re not hurt?”</p><p>Ghirahim would glare if he could. As things are, all he can do is flash magic through his gem in a way he hopes conveys his displeasure. </p><p>
  <em>Your sentimentality has ruined my moment. </em>
</p><p>A sudden barking laugh erupts from pink lips; the noise falls awkwardly from his mouth. Unexpected, then. Link wipes his mouth into his shoulder as if to be rid of it, hands otherwise occupied. </p><p>“I’m not… I’m not usually afraid. Like that.”</p><p>
  <em>You will excuse me if I do not believe you. </em>
</p><p>Blue eyes glare down at him. Ghirahim is still held with two hands. The one at his hilt grips tight, and the one at the flat of his blade slips down to meet it. </p><p>Now that the machine is dead, it is only the distant castle that calls to him, and Ghirahim drowns it out effortlessly. </p><p>“I’ve only been awake for thirty days,” Link says, slipping the sword onto his back, still through that aggravatingly awkward shirt. </p><p>
  <em>What? </em>
</p><p>“Sometimes… my…” he trails off into silence.</p><p>
  <em>Speak! </em>
</p><p>The blond shakes his head. He starts moving his hands, forming symbols in slow succession. If they carry some meaning Ghirahim does not know it. </p><p>With a frustrated sigh, Link grabs at his throat with one hand, shaking his head again.</p><p>His voice is gone from him, then. </p><p>How unbelievably irritating.</p><p>
  <em>No matter. Lead us from that castle, before the very sight of it nauseates me further. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s a three day journey across Hyrule Ridge, which they spend for the most part in silence. Link can’t get his voice to work for the full three days, but Ghirahim pipes in occasionally, usually to make fun of something.  </p><p>More often than not this ‘something’ is Link himself, and it seems to be centered around the fact that he’s easily distracted. He can’t help it.  He needs dragonflies, frogs, and all sorts of bugs for elixirs, and he keeps finding flowers he’s never seen before, and if he doesn’t collect food he’ll die. He’d like to tell Ghirahim all of that, but no sound comes out. All he can do is glare while the demon insults him inside his own head. </p><p>They cross the Great Tabitha Bridge on the third afternoon, and it’s here that Link finds his voice again.</p><p>“Rito Village…” he starts, his throat scratching, “... It’s north. One more day.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh are you speaking again? I had been enjoying your silence. </em>
</p><p>Link frowns, staring at the path ahead of him. </p><p>“We have to tame Vah Medoh. It’s one of the divine beasts. My… friend is trapped inside.” </p><p>
  <em>You do not sound certain. </em>
</p><p>“It’s hard to explain.”  </p><p>
  <em>No, I suspect your mouth simply lacks basic functionality. </em>
</p><p>He glares again, this one darker. “If you’re going to be mean, I won’t talk.” </p><p><em>Is that the secret to blessed silence? Very well. You speak with all the finesse of a corpse, and I hope to never suffer your attempts at conversation for the rest of my infinite life</em>. </p><p>“Fine,” Link says, and then doesn’t say anything else. He’d been trying to fill the demon in – isn’t sure what he knows or doesn’t now. How long had he been asleep in that obsidian? But he’s not going to let himself get made fun of over it. If Ghirahim wants to make things hard, he can do it alone. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Within the sword, Ghirahim curls in on himself with indignation. He had been trying to bait the boy. How dare this pathetic whelp of a hero give up after hardly a cut of banter. Is he so weak? The Skyloft hero would have never– </p><p><em>None of that</em>, Ghirahim thinks to himself.</p><p>Three days of silence had given him too much time for contemplation, days and days to lose himself to pointless memories. He requires distraction, and there is but one person around to give it to him. </p><p>
  <em>Now, now, hero. No need to be upset. If I promise to listen well, will you grace me with your… refreshing syntax? </em>
</p><p>Link rolls his eyes, but those pink lips part. “You’re impossible.”</p><p>
  <em>You would have me no other way, I’m sure. </em>
</p><p>The blond closes his eyes as he continues to walk. Does he expect to be warned if he’s about to trip? Ha. Not likely.</p><p>“I fought Ganon a hundred years ago. Apparently. I can’t remember. I don’t remember anything, not my parents, my life… I sort of remember Zelda.” He rubs at the back of his neck as he talks. “But Impa says there were four Champions, five including me, and we were all… We… They were…” His mouth twists up into a frustrated frown. “There are four devine beasts, each one from a different race. I finished one. But the other three – I don’t know if we were friends before or after, I can’t remember their faces, I don’t know anything but we have to free the beasts from Ganon’s hold so… so I… and… ” </p><p>He sighs, a sound of self-disappointment, and throws his face down in his hands. Fingers dig up into his hairline. </p><p>Ghirahim chimes, a rock on the path. </p><p>Link steps over it.</p><p>“...Ganon locked their souls inside the beasts. We need to free them, get control of the beasts, and then we can go after Ganon.”</p><p>
  <em>You died a century ago, and she brought you back to life. </em>
</p><p>“What?”</p><p>
  <em>Your goddess.</em>
</p><p>Link licks his lips, thinking. “I woke up in a place called the Shrine of Resurrection, so. Maybe.”</p><p><em>Twice</em>.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>
  <em>Very well. Sounds simple enough. Free three remaining lost souls, slay the most evil being known to all of time, and save your maiden. Any other pertinent information you wish to impart?</em>
</p><p>“What do you remember?” Link asks, his eyes open now, staring distractedly at a butterfly that flits by. “From a hundred years ago.”</p><p>As before, when the hero had asked a similar question, Ghirahim considers his response carefully. No need to confuse him further with disconnected past lives. </p><p>
  <em>Nothing of importance.</em>
</p><p>“So… We’ve never met? ...Before?”</p><p>
  <em>I had heard of you, the Hylian destined to seal the darkness, but no. We have never met. </em>
</p><p>Link is quiet for a long moment. Ghirahim fears he may be caught in this lie – tries to think back, to check if he’d said something that would negate what he is saying now, but can think of nothing. </p><p>At length, the hero speaks again.</p><p>“Why do you call him Demise?”</p><p>
  <em>Simply because he asked me to. </em>
</p><p>“How did you…” he trails off, his tone falling to distraction. Sky blue eyes are stuck staring at something in the grass, just off the path. </p><p>It’s some small blue animal. No bigger than an infantile rabbit. It has the face of an owl and tall odd horns, glowing with bioluminescence. Ghirahim had made a point to scold the Hylian for being so easily distracted; but now the demon also wishes to know what manner of creature this is. It is obviously magical, and not of Hylia’s breed. </p><p>As if a dog who caught the scent of food, Link changes direction on the spot. He moves quietly, crouching low, and slinks like a fox into the tall grass off the path.</p><p><em>At least your stealth is better than subpar</em>. </p><p>A hand comes back to push at his blade, a silent but firm <em>Shut up</em>. </p><p>Link follows the small blue animal deep into the forest, still heading north. </p><p>After minutes of twists and turns and ducking under vines, they come to a clearing surrounded by rock. Ghirahim surveys the area: it’s small and enclosed by stone and trees and flowers. There is a small pond, hardly more than a large puddle, though it appears to be deep. What lies with the pond, however, is what grasps the demon’s attention.</p><p>A large orange pod lined with sharp, red thorns sits on top of the water. There is a smattering of mushrooms behind it, and what looks like a ramp made of smaller ones leading to the pod itself. </p><p>Some sort of vegetation, certainly. But for what purpose?</p><p>Link, reaching out to grab the small blue animal he is still chasing, doesn’t appear to have noticed any of this. Just as he's about to claim his prize, the animal vanishes into a puff of pale blue smoke. </p><p>He blinks, confused, and his eyes widen as he finally notices the change in scenery.</p><p>“Woah…”</p><p>
  <em>Are you so unaware of your surroundings? </em>
</p><p>Link frowns. “I was busy.” </p><p>
  <em>Unable to multitask? All of Hyrule is doomed. </em>
</p><p>The blond folds his arms, apparently ignoring this quip. “Where are we?”</p><p>Ghirahim scoffs. <em> You expect me to know?  </em></p><p>“You <em>act</em> like a know-it-all, so.”</p><p>
  <em>Found your tongue, have you? </em>
</p><p>Blue eyes close, lips curling into a frown. “Just st-”</p><p>The sound of a languid, somewhat desperate, feminine voice cuts him short.</p><p>“Boy…” </p><p>Link turns on the balls of his feet to face the voice, his hands reaching back for his sword. </p><p>“Sweet boy…” Those words are coming from the pod. Ghirahim means to tell Link as much, but the hero is already turning around again to face it, hand on his hilt and ready. “There is no need for that…. Please, come closer.” </p><p>Ghirahim feels fingers slip off his hilt.</p><p>
  <em>What are you doing? </em>
</p><p>Link shakes his head. “I think it’s okay.” </p><p>
  <em>You think? </em>
</p><p>He nods.</p><p>
  <em>This sort of idiocy will get you killed. </em>
</p><p>“You’re right there,” Link says, already walking up the ramp made of orange mushrooms. </p><p>With no sound reply to that, the demon remains silent.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
“Boy… Listen to my story...”</p><p>Adjusting the belts around his chest – trying not to grimace at the sores – Link nods with a smile. He’s pretty confident this pod-thing isn’t going to hurt him. If it wanted to, why would it announce itself? And if it did attack, he’s <em> more </em> than confident they can handle it. </p><p>“This place was once a beautiful spring…” the voice says, “But as time passed, fewer and fewer travelers arrived to offer me rupees.”</p><p>
  <em>Rupees? What would this creature want with rupees? </em>
</p><p>Link shrugs, and continues to listen.</p><p>“As a result, my power has abandoned me… I beg of your help,” the voice says. It has a baritone sound to it, but he thinks it’s feminine. “I need rupees to become whole again...” </p><p>
  <em>Ah. This being is swindling travelers for coin. </em>
</p><p>“All I need is five-hundred.” With these final words, a hand slides out of the slit in the pod. It’s larger, nearly as tall as Link’s whole body, dark like Ghirahim’s skin. The hand is covered in jewels and gold.</p><p>Smiling, Link reaches into his pouch. </p><p>
  <em>What are you doing NOW? </em>
</p><p>“I’ve got six-hundred,” he says, searching through the pouch.</p><p>
  <em>You’ve got six-hundred— WHY would you give your rupees to a RANDOM PLANT in the middle of the FOREST!</em>
</p><p>“Because… She said....”</p><p>
  <em>Do not believe everything you hear; have you all the forethought of a gnat? You are going to put me in an early grave and I am not even built to succumb to such a death! </em>
</p><p>“Once my power has been restored,” the voice says, those fingers beckoning him. “I can do great things, boy.”</p><p>Ignoring the demon, Link pulls out the rupees and holds them towards the outstretched hand.</p><p>
  <em>You are UNREASONABLY thick. And not in a desirable sense. </em>
</p><p>The hand snatches the money from his own, making Link jump back in surprise. </p><p>There is a high-pitched groan, echoing against the rock around them and the forest beyond that. It’s obviously indecent and Link’s cheeks go warm, looking anywhere else but at the pod. </p><p>“Ahh... the power! It’s <em>overflowing!!</em>” </p><p>With a mess of green liquid, the pod unfurls open to reveal a beautiful massive flower. There is a small pool of water inside it, too aqua to be natural water.</p><p>In a rush a giant woman bursts from the depths. She comes to rest inside the petals and pond, only visible from her waist and up. She has pink hair, all of it wound neatly on top of her head, and she’s covered in jewelry, mostly gold and soft pink gems. Link gawks, his eyes disbelieving what he’s seeing.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim looks the woman up and down. As soon as her pod had split apart, he knew more or less what she was. Like him, she was a creature outside of Hylia’s rule. A Great Fairy. He has not seen one for at least a thousand years – technically four, if he were to count his long slumber. </p><p>They are generally harmless, yet single-mindedly self centered. If rupees are all she desires, however, then there is nothing for them to fear. </p><p>“I am the Great Fairy Kaysa,” she says, confirming his thoughts. She sets her chin in one giant hand, simpering down at Link with a small smile. “So you are the one who brought me back from the brink. Oh <em>my</em>... I see now that my first impression of you was correct. You are most <em>definitely</em> a pleasure to look at,” she purrs. </p><p>Link goes stiff, his mouth dropping open, his eyes scanning her massive form up and down. Her larger eyes, in turn, do the same to him.</p><p>“How would you like to come here and live with me, hmm?”</p><p>A red gem flickers slowly. If this Great Fairy truly wishes to keep him, she – unlike Ghirahim – <em>does</em> have the means to beguile him. All it would take is the right words, the correct sort of suggestion or promise or threat, a bit of fae magic, and the Hylian would be hers forever. Ghirahim has witnessed such events before. </p><p>He’s about to release himself from his blade, but the fairy speaks again.</p><p>“Ha! I’m kidding, of course,” she says, poking one large fingernail carefully against his red cheek. “But you certainly are cute when you’re blushing.”</p><p>Link blushes further, looking down at his feet.</p><p>Relaxing inside the sword, Ghirahim returns to idle listening.</p><p>She only wants rupees, then. Harmless. </p><p>“I can’t thank you enough, boy, but that won't stop me from trying.” She brings her hand back, resting her chin on it once more. Looking the Hylian up and down again, she continues, “That sword you carry is far too large for those belts. And you are using your shirt for a sheath! How unfortunate for your clothes. If you will allow me, I can enhance these items for you, so they may adequately carry your charge.”</p><p>Lifting his head up in surprise, a smile gradually engulfs Link’s face, going from one long ear to the other. He nods, grabbing at the belts around his chest. </p><p>“Oh my dear boy. I see they have left marks. Please, allow me.” With a wave of one large, bedazzled hand, pink magic falls down over the Hylian. </p><p>Ghirahim can feel it, as well. It is neutral in the wake of his demonic form. Their natural alignments are both chaotic, whatever that may mean for him now.  Her magic does not hurt. </p><p>The shirt he’s tucked through changes into a latch, some magical mechanism holding him to the belts in place of that awkward shirt-to-strap nonsense Link had cobbled together. The belts shift in size, changing to a stronger leather, and become lined with soft padding where they rest against peach skin. Their position changes as well. They wrap around his left shoulder, the one across his chest tucked up high rather than down near his hip. Most impressively of all, however, they are stark black.</p><p>The Hylian looks down at himself, at the widened belts over his bare chest, and he makes a ridiculous happy noise, his mouth wide with a smile. Two hands grip into tight fists and he sends that smile up at the fairy. She nods kindly down at him. Link reaches behind him and pulls Ghirahim out, slipping him easily off of his back, the magic clicking as he detaches from the latch. </p><p>He sets his blade back just as easily, warm magic holding him in place.</p><p>
  <em>Well, this is preferable. I suppose your luck has outweighed your idiocy for the moment. </em>
</p><p>Despite the insult Link grins, craning his neck to look at Ghirahim’s hilt.</p><p>The fairy clears her throat, calling his attention back. </p><p>“Demon inside the sword,” she says, “Won’t you grace me with your presence? I would love to look at one as beautiful as I.” </p><p>Who is he to refuse a request that charms his good looks? Ghirahim pulls himself from his blade, materializing in a flutter of diamonds beside Link.</p><p>He bows lowly, one hand across his front, one foot sliding back. </p><p>“Oh how <em>lovely</em>. You are as radiant as your comrade, yet a darker beauty, not unlike myself. How lucky am I today? To cross paths with two handsome travelers.” </p><p>Ghirahim was being gracious as a precaution, yet <em>any</em> who notice his beauty is deserving of his more honest graces. He bows lower, smiling to himself. “You have our thanks.” </p><p>“Sword,” she says once he’s standing up again, her tone non-accusing. Instead she only sounds curious. “Why is your master naked?” </p><p>“Apologies.” Ghirahim smirks. “He is incompetent.” </p><p>Link glares up at him.</p><p>The fairy laughs. “So many mortals are.” </p><p>Ghirahim nods solemnly, tossing a hand into the air in a fluid wave. “Why must we suffer their company?” </p><p>“Myself? For rupees. You?” She smiles down at him. “I do not know.” </p><p>Kaysa holds a finger out towards him, making for his hair. Ghirahim narrows his eyes at her. Respectfully, she stops. He may be in her territory, but his body is his own. </p><p>“Great Demon,” she says, holding her hand out palm-up in offering, “Would you like your own clothes enhanced as well? I could change their colour too, if you wish.” </p><p>Ghirahim sets a finger on his chin in faux-thought. Her offer was inevitable. She would not call him out for any other reason. In a world ruled by Hylia, a demon makes for a smart ally, as does a Great Fairy. </p><p>“Hmm.” He grins up at her, letting his teeth show. “I have always been partial to a dark magenta.” He used to wear it around his eyes, though has neglected to do so since waking up.</p><p>She clasps her hands together, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes! I can picture it well.” A large hand waves towards him, her magic like a breath of wind in a field of wildflowers. Though he would never admit it, it is nice to feel spells that do not wish to control or kill him. </p><p>“There,” she says.</p><p>Looking down, Girahim sees that his cloak has been changed to that dark magenta, the underside diamond pattern now a bright sort-of violet, bordering on pink to complement the outside. His fitted clothes are still white, the real diamonds still sapphire, and the gold still gold. It was a small change, red-on-gold switched to dynamic dark pinks, but one that brings his lips to an honest grin.</p><p>“They offer more protection now and, with your own magic, you may switch the colour back and forth as you see fit.” </p><p>Ghirahim sets a hand over where his heart would be, if he’d bothered to give himself one. “Stunning, truly.” </p><p>She winks at him. “Gentlemen, should you find yourselves heavy with rupees and desiring further enhancements – or, in your case young Hylian, a shirt – please return to me. I shall dream of your two beautiful faces well into the night.” </p><p>Her great body rises up out of the flower, only to sink the full way under, petals closing and pod returning to its former stasis. </p><p>They are, once again, alone.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link’s heart is racing. He can't stop looking. It shouldn't be such a drastic change, it was just different colours, reds and pinks instead of all that red and gold, but… It’s like he’s looking at something he thought he’d never see. In the now-quiet of the forest, surrounded by fanning green leaves, pink and white flowers, the gentle glow of mushrooms as the afternoon gives way to evening, Ghirahim… </p><p>Two dark eyes turn down towards him, and Link sucks back air. </p><p>“Like what you see?” </p><p>He stands still, frozen by the low tone. They’re not far apart. It only takes one step for Ghirahim to be inside his personal space. In the soft light of the fairy’s nook, he can see the details in his dark eyes. Thin pupils, winding irises, shades of hazel and grey. They’re deep. They seem to go on forever, unfolding into voidspace the longer Link looks. That same feeling comes back to him. The rush of something in his veins, overtaking his entire body like a flood. </p><p>“Must I say it again?” A gloved finger finds its way to Link’s chin. “Close those lips, or I really will take you up on their offer.” </p><p>Link feels heat spread all the way to his chest.</p><p>“You’re not declining,” the demon says. </p><p>He closes his eyes, shutting his mouth too.</p><p>“Oh, none of that.” The finger at his chin slips up the side of his face, dragging against his skin. It stops near his temple. Another finger presses in. Link leans against them, only barely, and it’s almost like being held. “Open those eyes.” </p><p>He shakes his head.</p><p>“Why not?” Ghirahim says, and Link can hear the smirk in his voice. Fingers trail down his face, down his jaw, down the side of his neck, taking their time across the tendons that lead to his clavicle. A sharp heat surges up Link’s stomach and he fights back a noise. “There is no denying my beauty, and no shame in enjoying it.” </p><p>Shaking, Link tries to bring a hand up, not sure why. To touch that angular face, but… why? He’s never… he doesn’t… He’s always had a hard time with talking, but never with <em>looking</em> at something. </p><p>“Very well. It is your loss.” Ghirahim’s hands release him, but only to set themselves against the new belts across Link's bare chest. He slides his fingers down the ones outlining his shoulder. “Now <em>these</em> are simply delightful,” he says, adding pressure as he continues. The demon’s fingers slip underneath next, touching at the soft padding on the other side of the belts, held away from wounded skin. “Wouldn't you say?” </p><p>His tone seems distant. </p><p>Curious, Link finally opens his eyes.</p><p>The demon is staring the at the ink-black leather in his fingers, and he looks… Happy wouldn’t be the right word. Calm. Centered. Relaxed.</p><p>Link barely has time to take in the expression before dark eyes snap back to his own. Fanged teeth slice into a smirk and Ghirahim says, “Would you like a show?” </p><p>“Wha–”</p><p>He’s released in a haze of diamonds, now dark magenta to match those clothes. Alone on the platform leading to the fairy’s pod, Link swings his head left and right, trying to find where the demon had vanished to. A cold shiver runs up his spine. But he’s smiling, Link is <em>smiling</em> and he doesn’t know why but this— </p><p>He <em>knows</em> this.</p><p>“I am up here, you senseless Hylian.”</p><p>Looking up, he sees Ghirahim sitting on top of the pod. His legs are crossed, hands behind him holding his weight, and he tosses his white bangs out of his face with the careful flick of his head. “Gaze upon my magnificent form! There are those who would kill for the honour, and have. So enjoy! Take in the full blessing of my presence.” </p><p>Dark eyes are held towards the sky. He’s preening in the light, just like a fancy bird. </p><p>Sighing through his nose, Link folds his arms.</p><p>“No?” Ghirahim smirks down at him. “This does not impress <em>Hyrule’s Chosen Hero</em>?” He uses the title with a generous amount of sarcasm.</p><p>Link shrugs, feeling his lips trying to tug up into a smile. </p><p>In a cloud of diamonds the demon disappears again, and the blond searches.</p><p>“Is this more to your taste?”</p><p>Link turns to follow the voice with his eyes. Ghirahim is lying on his back along a tree branch. He has one hand on his forehead, one knee bent, and his back arched. He looks every bit like a fainted noblewoman. A bright laugh slips out of Link’s mouth. The posture fits the demon perfectly; his gestures are dramatic, his torso bends in an arch, his legs are– </p><p>“Your mouth is hung open yet <em>again</em>,” Ghirahim says with a long-suffering sigh. “What is a sword to do?” An arm comes up, waving languidly before lying back down on his forehead. “Such an <em>uncouth</em> master,” he says, lowering himself on the tree branch fully, sighing as if in great agony. </p><p>“Sorry,” Link says, unable to help the grin that follows. </p><p>He watches the demon disappear in another wave of diamonds, the imprint of their shape against the light remaining over his eyes even as Ghirahim appears in front of him. </p><p>“No matter.”</p><p>Standing close, the demon bows low, taking one step back with his right foot. The smile on Link’s face drops with curiosity; what is he doing now? A white gloved hand takes his own, unfolding his crossed arms, and for a wild moment he thinks Ghirahim is going to kiss it. </p><p>He doesn’t. The demon disappears again in a flutter of diamonds, leaving Link’s hand empty in midair. He feels warm magic on his back as Ghirahim returns to his sword.</p><p>
  <em>I believe we have spent enough time frollicing in this fairy’s forest. Lead us from here, or do you not have a Most Sacred Quest to attend to? </em>
</p><p>Link fingers at the new belts as he starts to walk, smiling to himself and unable to reply.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm extra so I made my gf do THIS. Click to live your best life: <a href="https://miasunri.tumblr.com/post/619842656121585664">&lt;3</a></p><p>Also here's the belts: <a href="https://calimacil.myshopify.com/products/harness-in-y?variant=12853319303219">x</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Faron Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>They reach the stable outside Rito Village by sundown the next day. The path from Hyrule Ridge to the Tabantha Frontier is full of monsters, and the sword at his back is coated with dried and drying blood. Link, in turn, is covered in scrapes and cuts, one long but shallow slice curved around his left torso from a lizalfo claw. It stings when he walks but it's nothing new; will be gone in a few days. The sores on his chest and back, where the too-small belts used to dig in, have started to heal. He'd had one elixir mixed in with his things, and used it like a salve over the sores a few days ago. He still doesn't have a shirt – his own had disappeared with the Great Fairy's magic. Ghirahim had explained something about 'equivalence transfer' but it didn't mean anything to Link. Magic had always been Zelda's department, even though he can't remember exactly how or why.</p><p>As they'd made their way northeast, they'd run into more enemies than Link could remember. Hilt-in-hand they'd fought through them all. Ghirahim had complained about his 'inferior swordsmanship' at least fifty times, if he hadn't lost count.</p><p>‘I get the job done,’ Link had said, all the cuts on his body stinging and as he walked along the path in front of them, glaring at the open air. ‘What do you care for?’</p><p>The sword at his back had been silent for a minute, but eventually Ghirahim spoke.</p><p>
  <em>Anything worth doing is worth doing well.</em>
</p><p>Link had thought about that sentence for a long while.</p><p>As they enter the flat cliffside that looks out towards Rito Village, he hears the sound of a great gust of wind high overhead. Vah Medoh soars in long arcs, sending its shadow across Link’s nose and cheeks. It makes a booming call that resounds through the cliffs and trees, scattering birds from their perches. That sound should be familiar, right? Stopping for a moment, Link listens hard. The beast cries again. It’s like a hawk's screech but more hollow, haunted, clawing through the landscape as if hunting.</p><p>He closes his eyes, straining his pointed ears, but in the end it doesn’t sound familiar at all. </p><p>
  <em>What are you doing, boy?</em>
</p><p>Eyes still shut, Link doesn’t answer. Ghirahim will just laugh and he's been made fun of enough for one day.</p><p>The steel at his back is held up higher, now. It starts from his left shoulder then swoops in a slight diagonal slash down the whole of his back. When it heats up, Link feels it the most along his left shoulder blade. </p><p>
  <em>Your silence is irritating.</em>
</p><p>Link snorts. Not five days ago Ghirahim said he never wanted to 'suffer Link's conversations' again, or something like that. He has a hard time keeping up with the demon’s vocabulary, most of all when they’re in the middle of a fight.</p><p>
  <em>Why are we idling?</em>
</p><p>Sighing through his nose, Link opens his eyes just to roll them.</p><p><em>Move your feet, you </em> <em>whelp</em><em>.</em></p><p>“You could come out and walk yourself,” he says, hands on his hips.</p><p>The sword laughs inside his head, mostly maniacally. A chill runs up Link's back. <em>Walk? A Demon Lord such as myself does not walk. It would soil my pretty boots and then I would have no choice but to murder the next poor sap we happened across.</em></p><p>“Why?”</p><p>
  <em>Any who see me disheveled are destined for an untimely death.</em>
</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>
  <em>This does, of course, include yourself.</em>
</p><p>Link presses his mouth into a wry line, looking back at the sword.</p><p>
  <em>So unless you want the murder of innocents on your hands, hero, I suggest you continue on.</em>
</p><p>Usually Ghirahim is slow and methodical when he speaks, even inside Link's head. But now his tone is rushed. His words aren't as careful. And, if the blond thinks about it, they don't make a lot of sense. Ghirahim is usually more to the point but he seems a bit scattered.</p><p>Not replying, not sure what to even say, Link starts walking again.</p><p>Rito Stable sits only a few meters from the edge of a grassy canyon, inside of which are the pillars of rock and wood that make up Rito Village. It's built for Rito, clearly at one point inaccessible to anyone flightless and had hanging bridges added as an afterthought. </p><p>Warm steel presses against his back as he walks.</p><p>When he’d first found Ghirahim, more than a week ago, Beedle and Kish had both given him wary looks. Actually everyone at the Woodland Stable had avoided him. Thinking back, even the Koroks had.</p><p>It makes sense, now. He’s a demon sword. <em>Ganon’s</em> sword.</p><p>Still, Link wonders if it’ll be different here. He hopes so. It’ll be kind of hard to help everyone if they shun him for his choice in weaponry.</p><p>Music drifts to his ears as they reach the stable. Amidst tipped over barrels, boxes, discarded weapons and old armour, Kass stands with his accordian, singing gently against the backdrop of bustling stable patrons. When he spots Link next to the tent, the melody cuts off.</p><p>Kass greets him with a feathery wave. “Oh it’s you again! Small Kingdom,” he says. “Last I saw you was in the West Hyrule Plains, was it not? Good trick with the sword and the lightning.” He nods with a wink.</p><p><em>What ridiculous manner of beast is this?</em> A snarling voice slips through his head.</p><p>Link ignores him.</p><p>“I have returned to the village as a bout of homesickness overtook me… What has you visiting my humble home, young warrior?”</p><p>Link had met Kass the third day he’d been awake. He’d followed the distant sound of a familiar song until it led him to a tall blue decorative bird. The Rito was friendly, creative and passionate. It had been nice to meet someone in the first few days of being awake, even though his head hadn’t been very clear.</p><p>Smiling, Link points towards the sky by way of answering.</p><p>Amber eyes widen at him. “You are here to tame the beast?”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>“That is wonderful news,” Kass says, bending down slightly, looking at Link with kind eyes. “The whole village will rejoice. And you have a new sword to help you with the grave endeavour, I see.”</p><p>If Kass finds the black slash of steel across Link’s back unsettling, he doesn’t show it. Link nods, smiling again.</p><p>“What interesting steel it is made from,” the Rito says, peering around Link for a better look, “I have never seen a sword that absorbs and reflects light all at once. How strange and beautiful.”</p><p><em>Well,</em> Ghirahim says, <em>At least we may confirm the creature has functioning eyesight.</em></p><p>Inwardly, Link rolls his eyes for the third time that afternoon. He can picture clearly in his head the demon on top of the Great Fairy’s pod, preening in the sunlight like some smug bird.</p><p>“But it seems its weight has cut your skin. Here, this should help.” Kass reaches into a small pouch tied around his hip and hands a vile of something blue to Link. “You can buy clothes inside the village, as well. Nekk has a store full of warm wears for all species. He would be more than happy to take your rupees, I’m sure.”</p><p>Pressing a hand to his chest, he waves it towards the Rito. <em>Thank you.</em></p><p>“Oh yes, your hand signs. Hold on, I know this one…” Kass holds one feathered hand out, palm up, and pulls it from Link to himself, as if physically accepting the gratitude. “You’re welcome,” he says out loud as well. “Though I should really be the one thanking you, if you are here to save our Medoh.” Kass gives him a serious look. “My friend, be careful. If Vah Medoh is too much for you, there is no shame in returning again later.”</p><p>Link’s a little nervous about it. He doesn’t remember Revali, the Champion who is apparently trapped inside the beast, and he’s only found nine spirit orbs since he’d woken up. Each one is supposed to strengthen his soul – or so Zelda had told him. But he doesn’t feel much different. Each memory is supposed to bring him closer to who he used to be, the Hero of Hyrule destined to save the world from Ganon, but he hardly feels like that at all.</p><p>Maybe he needs to explore more, find more shrines and memories. </p><p><em>Too much? </em> A cold voice drifts through his head. <em>Does no one welcome a challenge in this age? If you run away from this beast, I will cut you down myself.</em></p><p>Another chill runs down Link’s spine. Why does it sound like he means it?</p><p>“Shall I play a song for you?” Kass asks, smiling down at him gently.</p><p>The blond nods, welcoming the distraction.</p><p>Once the melody is over, he leaves Kass with a small wave and another <em>thank you</em>. Ghirahim hadn’t had anything to say about the song, which was a bit weird; so far he’d had a comment about everything.</p><p>It's almost sunset. There’s no reason to wake anyone up. They can head into the village in the morning, he decides, looking at the burning fire next to the horse stalls. And if Ghirahim's in some sort of <em>mood</em>, whatever it is, it's probably better to wait until tomorrow to introduce him to the Rito.</p><p>Kass hadn’t minded the sword any, though.</p><p>Maybe it’ll be okay.</p><p>Like he’d done at the Woodland Stable, Link pays the keeper enough rupees for a bed and some washing materials. He sits down at the fire, sun sinking slowly over the mountainous horizon, wondering at the sword’s silence. Is he resting? Ghirahim had said he doesn’t sleep, but whatever he does at night seems a lot like sleeping to Link.</p><p>Shrugging to himself, he pulls the blade off of the magic latch on his back. He isn’t any less heavy, and the straps – larger and padded – still dig into him. But the Great Fairy’s alterations make it easier to lug Ghirahim around. It’s quick to pull the blade out now, and seamless to slip him back into place. If he can manage it, he’ll give her some extra rupees as a thank you after they tame Vah Medoh.</p><p>Looking down at them over his chest, Link stays quiet, sword in his hands held aloft. Ghirahim had held the belts, his fingers a light but firm touch. They’d been careful of his cuts. And the demon had made a show of being overdramatic, had made him laugh, both of them tucked into the fairy’s nook with warm magic lingering in the air like pollen.</p><p>A small ball of warmth builds in his stomach.</p><p>Ignoring it, Link sets the hilt of the sword on one boot, resting the blade back against his shoulder as he wrings a rag out, soaked with soap and warm water. Leaning back, he grabs the hilt and presses the wet cloth into black steel. There’s blood and dirt and grime everywhere. </p><p>A sharp chime rings out. The sword practically vibrates in his hand. That red gem flutters with light.</p><p>In a cascade of diamonds Ghirahim appears in the light of the setting sun. His expression is dark, folded over with deep, angry lines. His eyes are black; if there had ever been any hazel in them it is hidden now in relative darkness.</p><p>“How presumptive of you,” the demon hisses down at him.</p><p>Link’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Wh…”</p><p>“I will do this <em>myself</em>.” He picks peach fingers off of a black hilt and then snaps the sword away from Link entirely.</p><p>Ghirahim takes a seat on a large rock placed near the fire, somehow making the act of sitting on the ground look graceful. Irritation colours the corners of his angular face. His long nose elongates the snarl. He rests his own sword against himself and begins wiping down the steel with the damp cloth. To say it looks weird to watch Ghirahim do any sort of manual labour, any sort of chore at all, would be an understatement. But this isn't what has Link’s tongue tied up.</p><p>Can Ghirahim feel it when he holds the sword? And the blade? Had he felt that warm water now? Link would never… he’d never touch someone who didn’t want him to.</p><p>“Sorry.” The word falls out of his mouth like a stone dropping off a cliff.</p><p>Ghirahim doesn’t reply. Scowling, he works dry blood and dirt from the nooks of his blade.</p><p>Link tries to get his mouth to work, to say something about not knowing anything and <em>Why don’t you ever tell me anything</em> and <em>We should talk, shouldn’t we, about what makes us different from each other</em>. None of it comes out. He’s suddenly sick with himself. Ghirahim gets in his face all the time and even though Link doesn’t understand it he knows that's different because he’s <em>part</em> of it.</p><p>He’d felt up and down that blade more than once before Ghirahim was even conscious. </p><p>Shame turning him red, Link runs a hand through his hair, looking at the fire. <br/>
<br/>
It's a long while before he's able to speak again.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim feels like his teeth are melting within his own mouth. There are sparks of need ecching into his spine, burrowing deep inside fabricated bones; he needs to kill something; watch the weight of death sink over glistening eyes; sense the sweet-sick slip of a soul trying to escape before he devours that, too, along with all of the blood.</p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p>A bright voice. A voice like sun, like thunder, like light sucked through the dark spaces between stars. Why must it sound the same? A curse from Hylia, simply to torment him, a just punishment for his alignment.</p><p>“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”</p><p>What is he, demon Lord, <em>doing here?</em> At the beck and call of a hapless and unskilled swordsman. What of their weak partnership? Save the world hilt in hand so that Ghirahim may be free for some thousand years. Why? Why <em>that</em>, when he could return to his Master and be held by pure proficiency, perfect capability found in a strong one-handed grasp, and have his blade soaked with potent malice; to be the tool used to exact control over this wild world from that <em>wretched</em> goddess’s–</p><p>“Ghirahim?”</p><p>A hand stops inches from his upper arm. Peach, slightly sun-kissed, scarred along its knuckles.</p><p>The demon wants to slice it open. Cut a slow line from his shoulder to the tip of his middle finger. That blood is sweet, it is the sweetest thing Ghirahim has ever known.</p><p>“Ghir–”</p><p>“Shut up, you sniveling <em>child</em>,” he snaps, thrusting the sword towards him like a stab. The hilt hits hard against Link’s chest, and a grunt slips out of a pink mouth.</p><p>But fumbling fingers take his sword regardless.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link makes an awkward ‘ah!’ sound as his fingers dance to catch the blade shoved into his chest. He wraps his hands around it, only the hilt, and blinks down at the sword.</p><p>When he looks up, eyes scanning dark steel until it runs out, there’s only empty space next to him. Ghirahim had disappeared inside. </p><p>Looking back down at the sword, Link asks, “Can I put you back?” </p><p>
  <em>Certainly, if those weak fingers are capable of such a monumental task.</em>
</p><p>There’s still something off about his tone. It’s shrill and broken when normally it would be low and scathing. Calculated. Soundless, Link sets the newly-cleaned sword onto his back, his stomach still twisting with shame. Unable to say or do anything else, he stands and heads into the stable. He can leave Ghirahim here on his own while he goes out to find some food. The demon probably wants to be alone. Who wouldn’t, after something like that?</p><p><em>What are you doing, you useless Hylian?</em> the sword snaps as Link makes to lean him against the wall next to his rented bed. <em>I have told you time and time again</em>… Frozen, the blond listens hard, hands holding only a black hilt. …<em>Do NOT drop me.</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Link hisses out a breath as he releases an arrow. It strikes through the forest, low to the ground, but misses its mark. The fox darts away, its ears pulled back and bushy tail disappearing around the cliffside. </p><p>Sighing longly, he drops his bow. Link doesn’t eat a lot of meat – it takes a long time to skin and gut and cook and he doesn’t like killing animals without needing to <em>–</em> but there’s not much around Rito Stable by way of vegetation.</p><p><em> What inane task are you performing now? </em>the demon whispers in his head. </p><p>“Hunting,” Link says simply, re-aligning his shot. There’s a bird, pink and tall, nestled into the cliffside above him. Birds have terrible hearing, but he speaks quietly anyway.</p><p>He can hear the smirk in Ghirahim’s voice, can picture his words said slickly through fanged teeth. <em>Do you want to know something amazing?</em></p><p>“No.”</p><p><em>You are a</em> much <em>worse archer than a swordsman.</em></p><p>Link kills the bird in a painless hit through its head. Then he cranes his neck back, pulling his shoulder forward to glare back at a black hilt.</p><p>The demon chimes at him, the sound somehow delighted and smug all at once.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When they return to the fire, cleaned and ready-to-cook meat in Link’s hand, there are other people sitting around it: two Rito and two Hylians. Link sits down among them, readying the iron pan to cook his meal. He can feel the looks he’s given. They’re not directed at him, though. Not really. </p><p>Is the sword really that ominous? Just because it’s black? And huge? And spiked?</p><p>Meaning to ignore them – wishing Kass were still here – he starts cooking.</p><p>The familiar sound of unfolding diamonds fills his ears, and Link nearly jumps when he turns to look and Ghirahim is sitting next to him in front of the fire. He’s on Link’s left, opposite of the four strangers who had inched gradually away from him.</p><p>“Wha... Wha…” The Hylian woman starts.</p><p>The demon waves at her, a long pink tongue poking out slowly, slipping between his lips and teeth.</p><p>“Stop that,” Link says under his breath.</p><p>Ghirahim doesn't.</p><p>The Hylian woman, along with her assumed friend, stands up. They both leave on tripping feet. All the while the demon’s tongue continues to wiggle around. </p><p>The two Rito watch her go, turn back to look at Ghirahim, and then they stand up and leave, too.</p><p>“Mortals are always so <em>sensitive</em>,” the demon says, nearly moaning the last word. His tongue is still stuck out like a snake’s, and he’s staring off in the direction the four strangers had left in.</p><p>“Put that away,” Link says, feeling discomfort crawl through him at the sight, as well as the definite start to a headache.</p><p>Ghirahim turns that dark smirk on him. “Why?” he asks, somehow pronouncing the word perfectly even with that thing between his teeth. “Worried I may discover some <em>sensitivity</em> of your own?”</p><p>Link glares at him.</p><p>“Hmmm.” The demon’s smirk widens to a grin, his eyes widening with it. “Perhaps around those ears?” he asks.</p><p>Link continues to glare at him, his meat sizzling in the pan over the fire. </p><p>Wiggling it around – just to show off, he’s sure – the demon does eventually retract his tongue. “Am I going to have to teach you to have <em>fun</em> as well as how to properly wield a sword?”</p><p>“I guess,” Link says, returning to his cooking.</p><p>“You’re tired.” There’s no warmth in the statement.</p><p>Link shrugs. </p><p>The demon opens his mouth like he’s about to say something more, but nothing comes. Instead Ghirahim stretches himself dramatically, elongating his spine in the firelight. From the corners of his eyes Link watches.</p><p>Even with the lofty cloak hanging over him, he can still make out his frame. The demon is taller than him and doesn’t lack for muscles, but he’s leaner than Link is. Or maybe his height means all those muscles have more space to spread out.</p><p>In a flurry of diamonds, Link is suddenly alone. The demon sends himself to the top of the stable, just under the horse's head. He disappears from there and reappears on the head itself, then sends himself higher again, perching on top of the windmill at the very crest of the stable in a way that should be impossible. His white hair blows in the wind, darker skin blending in with the backdrop of night.</p><p>What is he doing? Link wonders. Maybe he gets... claustrophobic inside the sword? What’s it like in there?</p><p>
  <em>You are staring.</em>
</p><p>Link sucks back a sharp breath through his nose.</p><p>From up high, the demon grins down at him, teeth gleaming in distorting moonlight.</p><p>Cool metal presses into his bare back. </p><p>Face heating up, he nearly jumps to return his attention to his meal over the fire. The meat is burning. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim feels it when the hero rises from the fire and heads inside the stable. The demon himself is still lounging on top of it, perched neatly on a windmill and looking up at the night sky. His sword isn’t far enough away to force him to follow. It’s only a few feet beneath him, inside the well-lit tent. Calloused hands grab his hilt and the demon knows the hero is readying himself for this particularly aggravating mortal necessity.</p><p>Waving his hand with half a heart, he sends himself to his sword, slipping into that space where his corporeal form ceases to exist.</p><p>With a small ‘ah-’ the hero turns away from the bed to look at the sword propped against the wall. The gem had likely gleamed with the force of his spirit returning.</p><p>
  <em>Go to sleep, poor little hero.</em>
</p><p>He’s given a stiff glare for the insult. The way those bushy eyebrows fold down and his lips press together is entertaining enough, though the demon can see tired lines on his face.</p><p>Link lies himself on the bed, still wearing his holster, belts, and traveling pants. He kicks off only his boots, which land in a muddy pile beside the bed. A blond head barely hits the pillow before the man is asleep. His lips part but a shallow width, the same as they had when Ghirahim first returned to himself, the same as they had in that Great Fairy’s alcove.</p><p>Even the way they fall into an instant death-like sleep is similar. The <em>differences</em>, he had best remind himself of those. The sun-colour blond, rather than sand; the longer strands pulled into a low tie; the pale blue eyes, full of sight, the most divergent of all. The scars; the mouth which never seems to work quite right; expressions that also seem to lose themselves to confusion; the top lip pulled up into a long bow, perked and pretty and then frowning at him firmly; the taste of their blood identically nectarous.</p><p>Asleep like death, laid out like a prize to be claimed, the simple shallow breaths puffed out from his body. Always lies on his back. How simple victory would be now. Ghirahim could rise and sink his saber into warm flesh, turned hot with vivid fear. He could end this foolish mirage and slot himself inside hands truly large enough to wield him. Close, that beat of blood, that passionate burning, close, closer than it has been in three thousand years.</p><p>Sweetly soft hair is under his fingers, fibers burn in all their goddess-effected purity. Ghirahim can smell his blood. The purpose he was forged and bound for, lying out helpless like a newborn deer under his hands.</p><p>A sudden and loud crash, coming from just outside, sends the demon back to his sword.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link sits up in a rush, his hair flying into his face. He’d know the sound of lizalfos anywhere. Even in the dead of sleep. Unthinking, not fully awake, his bare feet hit the floor and he grabs his sword. He stands and half runs, half stumbles his way out of the stable.</p><p>“Lizalfos,” he says blearily, blinking sleep and water from his eyes. </p><p>There’s no reply from the sword.</p><p>The lizards are at the horses, yanking at their reins, clearly trying to take them. To eat, probaby, Link’s never seen a lizalfo ride anything. He rubs a flat hand across his face like he’s trying to pull the sleep off of himself as he runs in.</p><p>Although the demon hadn't spoken, he does chime, warning Link of attacks from behind and queuing openings. His eyes barely open, Link follows the sounds. It’s surprisingly easy. Way easier than it should be. </p><p>Just as he thinks that, a lizalfo spear jabs him in the shoulder, the tip piercing his skin. He flies backwards, rear slamming into the midnight grass.</p><p>Link groans, his head lulling forward.</p><p>
  <em>Get up, you useless Hylian!</em>
</p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p><em>This chime</em> – he sounds it off as he speaks – <em>means jump back</em>. <em>This one</em> – sounds this off as well, a higher tone – <em>means jump up. Learn them well or your blood will water the grass!</em></p><p>“M’not useless,” he says, staggering to his feet. “Just don’t wake up fast.”</p><p>
  <em>I could not put into words how little I care! If you are naught but a vessel for action then be so! Sword up, feet apart— OPEN your cursed EYES you dimwitted–</em>
</p><p>A chime cuts him off, this one Link knows reflexively – block, chest height. He hears metal hit metal and in his tired stupor his mouth falls open on its own. He asks, “Does this hurt you?”</p><p>
  <em>Your sentimentality causes me greater suffering by far. I am a SWORD, combat is my singular purpose. Now shut that mouth, hero, and focus!</em>
</p><p>“No.” Eyes still closed, his lips crawl into a sneaking grin. “No, you like it when<em>–</em>”</p><p>
  <em>SHUT UP, LINK, OR I WILL–</em>
</p><p>He raises his sword up and blocks an attack. The vibration of sword-on-spear quakes up his arm, waking him up a little more. One of the lizalfos had thrown it at him from ten feet away. Link shakes himself, wishing he could tie his hair back, but… he’s not sure he needs to see at all for this.</p><p>“Let’s go,” he says, and rushes back in.</p><p>Link thrashes through the lizards. Going by Ghirahim’s chimes there are six of them, five with spears and one with a bow.</p><p>The demon sends out chimes he already knows, and explains the ones that are new, which has been their usual tactic. Link misses marks more than once and the sword hisses shrilly at him every time. Panting, awake enough but lost in the haze of half-sleep, he feels like… like a marionette pulled with strings, but not controlled. Lined up, aimed, and set free to fire.</p><p>He starts laughing, his sword slicing through thick reptilian hide.</p><p>
  <em>I am glad one of us is enjoying ourselves.</em>
</p><p>“You’re<em>–</em> not?” Link pants, turning on his heels to meet another lizalfo in the side.</p><p>
  <em>Between your lousy swordsmanship and all of this repulsive reptilian blood, no. I am having a terrible time.</em>
</p><p>“I’ll find you<em>–</em>” he pauses to carve the sword deeper into the lizard’s side, killing it in a wet gurgle, “<em>–</em>something else. After.”</p><p>
  <em>It is the middle of the night. Your loathsome mortal body requires sleep.</em>
</p><p>Grunting, Link follows a chime behind him, one that means cut high. He slices through something. Probably a neck.</p><p>
  <em>Are your eyes still closed?</em>
</p><p>Link nods.</p><p>Rage hikes through the demon’s tone as he snaps, <em>Do you have ANY sense in that blond head?</em></p><p>“It’s... easier.”</p><p>
  <em>How in your wretched goddess’s name could it be EASIER?</em>
</p><p>Link shrugs. “We’re doing okay.”</p><p><em>Okay? OKAY?</em> His tone hikes up further, shrill and disorganized, but the chimes continue through it all. <em>Your feet are too close together, your shoulders are hunched, you breathe like a boar in labour and you SWING ME LIKE AN AXE!</em></p><p>“Oh.”</p><p><em>One more, on your left! Head UP!</em> A ring of chimes follows telling him the rest. Link swings out in the way he thinks he’s supposed to, aiming at the very last lizalfo, but his sword meets air and then he’s falling.</p><p>He lands on his face, mouth open and teeth digging into the dirt. </p><p>Sitting up, he opens his eyes finally, grabbing the sword and spitting grass out of his mouth.</p><p>The lizalfo is standing over him, arrow pointed directly at his head, one of its lizard eyes closed to aim. Link makes to roll out of the way, but finds that he doesn’t need to.</p><p>A quick flash of diamonds and Ghirahim is standing beside the lizalfo. With one slash of his black saber he cuts the monster’s throat from the side, and the beast collapses into a crumbled corpse on the cool grass. Violet mist trails out, Ganon's calamity leaking up into the moonlit sky.</p><p>Link, sitting on his rear with the sword lying next to him, his hand resting on the hilt, goes lax with a sigh.</p><p>“As for <em>you</em>,” Ghirahim looms over him, his red cloak billowing in the wind, and points that black saber straight between Link’s eyes, “It is time you learned how to wield me properly. <em>On your feet</em>,” he hisses, “before I slice them off.”</p><p>Finding himself smiling for some wild reason only the full moon might have an answer to, Link hauls himself up, holding Ghirahim’s sword with both hands. The demon in front of him waves languid fingers and his saber disappears.</p><p>Ghirahim holds two fingers up, a bright red light – the same as his gem – glowing at their tips. Glaring down at Link he says, “You are holding <em>my</em> blade and I am no longer willing to suffer your ineptitude.”</p><p>Link grips his sword firmly, eyes honed in on two fingers and a red light.</p><p>“Spread your feet more. More. Do you want to fall over? Fine, that will have to do. Now your shoulders – <em>relax</em> them. Lift me with your legs, not your back. There. Now—” He holds the fingers up and towards Link’s left, “—Swing with purpose, not only passion; use the weight in your favour; each swing should come from your hips and thighs, not only your arms. And <em>open those eyes</em>, you useless Hylian, or I shall cut their lids off!”</p><p>They flash open, bringing the demon into his sight. Link doesn’t remember closing them.</p><p>“Very good,” Ghirahim says like it was not very good at all. “Now <em>strike</em>.”</p><p>They do this for an hour in the dead of night, Ghirahim moving his fingers and Link twisting in new ways to make the hit, while the demon yells at him about where his feet are or how he’s lifting the sword. Top left, middle right, bottom right, middle, top middle… it goes on and on, and Link’s out of breath, the stable beside them going hazy as the night continues. All he sees are those two fingers, red light guiding him. He misses one hit and nearly trips over his own feet, fumbling to keep his hold on the heavy sword.</p><p>“You are lucky I did not <em>backhand</em> you for that blunder.”</p><p>“Hu—?”</p><p>“I should not spend too long teasing and toying with you. Yet here you are.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Why is it so dark? Where did the stable go? Why—</p><p>“Did you really just draw your sword?”</p><p>“Wha…”</p><p>“Master Link?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Master, are you alright?”</p><p>“Why can’t I see anything?”</p><p>“Why can’t you…” A feminine voice says, though it's more like a string of bells and clinking glass than a voice. “Are you attempting to be humorous? Apologies, Master. But I do not understand the joke.”</p><p>“Fi?”</p><p>“Yes?” She says, clear worry in her crystalline voice.</p><p>Link shakes himself mentally, pulling his weapon out from behind him. The Goddess Sword feels as light and easy in his hand as it always had. </p><p>“Nothing, sorry,” he says, keeping her held aloft. “Where are we?”</p><p>“I have confirmed the vegetation here matches that of the Faron Woods,” she says, her voice now in front of him, meaning she’s left the sword. “We have reached the area locally referred to as the Deep Woods. Now we should continue towards the temple in search of Zelda.”</p><p>“Right,” he says, nodding once. They’re looking for Zelda. A tornado had taken her, and some great evil was trying to overrun the world. He’s on the surface. The very first person in thousands of years to touch the ground. </p><p>“The way before you is clear for approximately fifteen paces,” Fi explains, “and then you will have some climbing to do, and a row of vines to swing from. There is a 98% chance we will encounter more bokoblins, as well.” </p><p>Holding the sword out in front of him, Link begins to walk, hearing the gentle whir of Fi floating beside him.</p><p>“Okay. Thanks, Fi.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>With her direction, Link climbs, swings, and fights his way through the forest. They’re still working on the cues, still learning how to work together, and Fi apologizes every time she gives him a direction he doesn’t need. Link tells her not to worry about it. She wants to make sure he doesn’t walk off a cliff, which is appreciated, and being on the surface is still new to him anyway.</p><p>They reach Skyview Temple after an hour or so. Link hears the singing of birds, all gathered tightly together in a large mass, and knows they must be resting on top of something big to fit so many in one place.</p><p>“We are here, Master,” Fi says. “There is a stone slab with engraved writing. Shall I read it to you?”</p><p>Link shakes his head. If it’s engraved, he can do it. “Just walk me over. Please.” He could find it himself, but it would take awhile and they don’t have that kind of time. If Zelda really is inside the temple, who knows how long she’ll stay there, or if she’s in danger.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>He feels the slab under his hands, the words printing inside his mind. <em>He who ascended from above: Look to the star that the bird rising heavenward gazes upon, and aim your shot there.</em></p><p>Link huffs through his nose. ‘Look’? Really? Did the Goddess not know he would be blind? This sort of thing keeps happening. Not that he minds, he’ll do anything to save Zelda, but it just seems a little…</p><p>“I believe it is referring to the door,” Fi says. “There is plating in the shape of a bird over it. Perhaps, on the ceiling?”</p><p>Fi is right, and Link sends his beetle towards the ceiling, breaking some sort of mechanism that chimes upon release. The stone floor under his boots begins to vibrate. He hears hinges unlock, twist and grind, and the doors slide apart. Cool air washes over his face; it’s a little damp and musty.</p><p>“The temple doors have opened, Master.”</p><p>Link nods. “Are there stairs leading down?”</p><p>“No,” she says, clearly surprised he’d known the temple went underground, “The way is a flat, gradual descent. There are mushrooms around the walls. No enemies in sight, yet. I am 90% sure we will encounter monsters here, however.”</p><p>They make it through the temple without much trouble.  Fi explains the basic layout, signals him when he gets too close to edges, and Link learns to listen for the wriggling sounds the skulltulas make, waiting for a pause in the noise before he strikes them down.</p><p>Fi isn’t able to track Zelda’s aura inside the temple, so they have to search everywhere. He starts to get anxious. Zelda’s always been tough, but she’s not combat trained like he is. If she gets cornered by a group of those bokoblins… </p><p>Eventually, they come across the giant eyeballs. Fi tells him what’s happening – that they’re following her sword – and Link can’t help but feel a little annoyed.</p><p>Giant eyeballs? Really?</p><p>He spins his sword in circles, dizzying the eyes, and continues on.</p><p>Next they discover a chest, inside of which is a Dungeon Map.</p><p>Huffing, Link leaves it in the chest.</p><p>Finally, after two more hours of searching – by now he has the whole temple memorized and can swing, jump, and climb his way anywhere, as long as he doesn’t get turned around – they come to a large stone door. Fi explains that it’s on the other side of the canyon in front of them. He will have to cross a rope, which is pulled tight over a bottomless pit. Link drops a rock down to listen and never hears it hit the ground.</p><p>“There is one bokoblin on the other side, just before the door.”</p><p>He can hear the beast just fine, but doesn’t tell Fi that. She’s trying to help him. They’ll figure out how to work together. What’s more important is getting to Zelda.</p><p>After adjusting his cap, Link begins to cross the rope. He throws a stone at the bokoblin when it screeches at him. This causes the monster to wander onto the cord with him. Link jumps, making the wire shake. Fi gasps with worry – but the only thing that falls is the bokoblin. Catching himself with his hands, Link hangs on the cord, feet dangling in the open air.</p><p>He pulls himself back up, walking the remainder of the rope to the ledge.</p><p>“Very skillfully done, Master,” Fi says, floating next to him. “Now all that’s left is to place the key in this door. I calculate an 86% percent chance that Zelda is on the other side.”</p><p>Link’s heart races. He sets his hands on the doors, feeling the stone for an opening. Then he shifts the puzzle key to match the slot and slides it in, the act easy for him. The doors shiver and slide open, and he practically bounces with anticipation. As soon as he hears the doors click fully open, Link runs into the room.</p><p>“Master! Be careful!” Fi calls after him.</p><p>Running into a room he’s never been in before isn’t smart, he knows, but if it’s for Zelda he’d risk anything.</p><p>He stops, listening to his echoing footsteps. He’s in a room with narrow walls but a high ceiling, that much he can tell.</p><p>“Mistress Zelda is not here,” Fi says, still floating behind him, “It seems we–”</p><p>Heat rushes past his face, along with a blast of wind. It smells like steel, like fire, like sunlight on his skin. Link grits his teeth, keeping his feet planted against the force. The burning wind dies down after a moment.</p><p><em>Master</em>, Fi says in his head, having returned to the sword, <em>Someone is here. He has a sword, a saber, he is trying to break the door. Oh– No, he’s...</em></p><p>“Look who it is,” a low, grandiose voice says, the sound slipping through the room as soft and final as the last breath before dying. “I thought that tornado I stirred up would have tossed and torn you up, yet here you are.” That softness dissolves away, leaving only something cold. “<em>Not</em> in pieces.”</p><p>Link tenses. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up one at a time as if being called to attention. There is something heavy in the air. When he breathes, it feels like his lungs take on water.</p><p>“Not that your life or death has any consequence.” The slight muffle in the tone tells Link the man had turned away; maybe looking at that door Fi said he’d been about to break. “It’s just the girl that matters now, and I can sense her here… just beyond this door.”</p><p>Link balls his hands into fists. Is he after Zelda? He said he sent the tornado. Was he… is this the great evil the old woman told him he was destined to defeat?</p><p>“Yes, we plucked Her Majesty from her perch in the clouds, and now… She is ours.”</p><p><em>Ours?</em> Who else?</p><p>Like a flipped switch, the man’s tone shifts to something higher, balanced between polite and manic, “Oh but <em>listen</em> to me, I’m being positively uncivil.” Link hears careful feet tap on the stone floor. The man must have turned to face him, because his voice rings clearer, “Allow me to introduce myself…”</p><p>Those careful feet tap again. Link has an image in his head of someone very small, thin and wispy, when he hears those soft falling footsteps. But his voice, subdued in a hissing whisper one moment, hollowly loud in another… It doesn’t sound like it comes from a body at all. It’s drifting out from a great wide nothingness.</p><p>Fi had said there was a man, but Link doesn’t think this person is a <em>person</em> at all.</p><p>“I am the Demon Lord who presides over this land, this place you call the surface,” he says, and Link’s eyes widen. A <em>demon</em>. The old woman said hordes of demons had attacked the surface long ago. Was this thing in front of him one of them? “You may call me Ghirahim. In truth, I prefer my full title: <em>Lord</em> Ghirahim.” His voice had hiked up to that airy whisper; it sounds exactly like when Link cuts into a bokoblin and the steel of Fi’s blade scratches across bone. “But I’m not fussy,” he finishes, tone low again.</p><p>Gripping his hands into fists, Link furrows his eyebrows. If this demon took Zelda, tore Link’s life apart at its seams – if <em>this</em> is the monster trying to destroy everything he cares about – he’ll cut him down, here and now.</p><p>He reaches behind him and pulls Fi out, gripping the hilt tight. </p><p>“Did you really just draw your sword?” That empty voice is muffled again. He must have turned his back to him. Is he trying to go through the door? Link takes a step forward, eyebrows still furrowed, training sightless eyes on where he thinks the demon is. “Foolish boy.”</p><p>He takes another step forward.</p><p>“By all accounts, that girl should have fallen into our hands by now. She was nearly ours when that loathsome servant of the goddess snatched her away.” Another shift in that voice – brittle anger, like he’s speaking around thorns growing through his vocal chords, mangling his throat, “Do you have any idea how that made me feel inside?” Heat hits Link’s face again. “Furious! Outraged!” He hears a flurry of frantic rings, exactly the same as the ones Link had heardwhen the tornado hit it. Air rushes in front of him as if hurrying to fill a suddenly empty space; had the demon opened the door? But that voice comes again, and it seems to be everywhere at once. “<em>Sick</em> with anger!”</p><p>Link stays absolutely still, trying to orientate himself. His knees are shaking. He ignores them, focusing on his ears. </p><p>“This turn of events has left me with a strong appetite for bloodshed.” His voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, and Link presses his lips together, his brow wet with sweat. </p><p>Footsteps behind him. So soft, most people wouldn’t hear them. So quick, Link doesn’t have time to turn around.</p><p>Two hands slink up his back and over his shoulders. Hot breath is on his ear and neck. Something silky, hair maybe, brushes his cheek. “Still…”  Link’s senses are flooded and he gasps, his back arching. “It hardly seems fair, being of my position, to take out all of my anger on you…”</p><p>His mouth drops open. Hands on his shoulders squeeze, and barely he feels a body press into his back. It’s as hard as steel.</p><p>“Do not fret, boy. I promise not to murder you… No, I’ll just beat you within an inch of your life!” </p><p>Something makes a slithering, wet noise near his face, sending a shiver of disgust through him. Wildly he realizes it must be a tongue.</p><p>Link pushes himself away from the demon, panting with heavy breaths. He grips his sword by his side. </p><p>A chime above his head. Link swings his sword up to meet Fi’s signal, and steel meets steel. Another chime, to his left, and he meets this too. The demon pushes against his sword and Link’s feet slip. He stumbles backwards, barely catching himself.</p><p>“My goodness. You are <em>abysmal</em>. Is this the best you Hylians have to offer?”</p><p>Link grips his sword, facing where he thinks that voice had come from, but being nearly knocked off his feet had rattled him.</p><p>“Why aren’t you looking at me, boy?” The words seem to creep up his spine, lathered in some faux sweetness; Link’s never heard anything like it before. “Frozen with fright?”</p><p>Shifting on the balls of his feet, the blond turns to face that voice.</p><p>“I will not disgrace myself by engaging in combat with a talentless child. But… Perhaps a lesson instead?”</p><p>The demon laughs roughly under his breath. And then… nothing. He must be <em>doing</em> something, but Link can’t hear anything or feel anything. Should he attack? Should he wait?</p><p><em>Master</em>, Fi’s voice calls out clear and Link feels his heartbeat slow. He’s not alone. They’re a team, and they can handle this. He grips the hilt of the Goddess Sword and takes a deep breath. <em>He is holding up two fingers. I believe he wants you to strike them.</em> Link nods to show he’s heard her. <em>This man is very dangerous. I suggest we go along with what he asks for the time being. I will signal you.</em></p><p>“What are you waiting for, boy? I could stab you through the gut now and you would bleed yourself dry on the floor of your goddess’s own temple!”</p><p>Fi’s chime rings out, and Link strikes. A clang of metal echoes throughout the room. If he’s hitting this demon’s fingers like Fi had said, they must be made of something hard.</p><p>“Pathetic!” The demon hisses. “You swing your blade like a witless beast!”</p><p>Link strikes again, a downward attack, and grits his teeth as the vibration runs up his arm. Ghirahim pushes against the sword from what feels like the very tip, and he throws the blade back towards Link with a shove.</p><p>The blond stumbles again.</p><p>“Did no one teach you how to do this before sending you down here? Spread your feet!”</p><p>Officially or not, Link has been training to be a knight his whole life. There’s nothing wrong with his stance. Furrowing his brows, he holds his sword at the ready and waits for a chime.</p><p>“I said <em>spread your feet!”</em></p><p>His feet are kicked apart. Link shouts, the sensation unexpected.</p><p>“You would do well to learn some obedience.” </p><p>
  <em>Master, until there is a clear opening, do as he says. I calculate a 99% likelihood that he will kill you otherwise.</em>
</p><p>Keeping his feet spread apart, Link grips the hilt of his sword. For Zelda, he reminds himself, he’s doing this for Zelda. If he has to play along with a manic demon’s ego for a few minutes so be it.</p><p>“Very good,” the demon purrs, that fake sweetness back in his voice, “Now strike! And do so with intent to kill! Anything less will make me <em>highly</em> disagreeable.”</p><p>Grunting with effort, Link hits at the fingers. The clash still sounds like metal on metal. He follows hissing instructions about his grip, his feet, where to lift and how to shift his hands through a strike. As sick as his heart feels, as badly as he wants Fi to chime at him for a real attack…</p><p>The demon is right. After a few minutes of scathing insults, Link finds he’s faster, lighter on his feet. </p><p>But he’s had enough.</p><p>Stepping back, he sheaths his sword.</p><p><em>Master Link!</em><br/>
<br/>
Zelda is behind that door and he’s <em>not</em> wasting any more time entertaining some crazed monster. Turning on his heels, Link makes to burst into a run.</p><p>The front of his shirt is grabbed faster than a loosed arrow. Pulled onto his toes, Link’s heart shoots into his mouth.</p><p>The back of a hand as hard as steel smacks him across the face. His ears ring, his cheek burns, and the air around him spins like it does when he falls off his loftwing. </p><p>Link feels his sword slip off of his back.</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“This is the very least you deserve for disrespecting me, boy.”</p><p>He hears Fi clatter to the ground. </p><p>“Stay still now,” the demon says, and Link pictures a sick smile, it takes up the whole of his mind’s eye. The grip on his shirt slides up his chest and clamps around his neck. He’s lifted completely off the floor. “I could gut you like a pup. How <em>weak</em> you are.”</p><p>Link writhes in this firm hand, gripping at the wrist near his throat, but he can’t break free.</p><p>“I promised not to kill you. Yet a single slice cannot be enough to fell you, surely.”</p><p>Link hears a sound – impossible to place. Magic, he thinks. </p><p>And then freezing metal is cutting into his side. Link has been hit by monsters but he's never been sliced like this. Muscle and sinew split apart as the demon works the saber through to the bone. His mouth shoots open and a groan of pain shakes him, the sound squeezing out through the hand at his neck.</p><p>“Oh what a beautiful sound…” Ghirahim says with a wistful sigh. Link struggles to breathe. “Such a shame.” Steel leaves his side in blissful release. The tips of freezing fingers ghost across his mouth, as hard as stone and empty of any life. “With lips like this, we could do something much more…” </p><p>Link is dropped abruptly. His side, now open to a deep fissure, folds and contorts as he hits the floor. He shouts, curling in on himself and lying on his uninjured side. </p><p>A hand on his chest pushes him forcefully onto his back. Link feels blood slink down his side, spilling onto the floor. The demon is on top of him, not touching anywhere but there’s a radiating negative energy, a screaming nothingness overtaking Link’s senses.</p><p>“I fear I’ve spent far too long toying and teasing you,” the demon says, a finger petting across his jaw. “Do not bleed out on me, Skychild. Ruthless as I am, I am no liar.” A blade presses into his throat, slipping between his skin thinly. It’s removed and he hears that wet noise again. The demon groans, “How sweet you taste…” Even though everything is always black to him, Link feels like he’s sinking down into a great pit of blackness, “Link,” it’s suffocating, the blade at his throat pushes in and Link wishes it would finish the job, wishes it would release him from this weight on his chest, “Link,” dying would be better than this nothingness filling every inch of his body – but <em>Zelda, he has to save—</em> “Zelda?” How can anything be this cold? “That’s right, you must rescue your maiden.” </p><p><em>Let me go</em>-</p><p>“So <em>breathe</em>, you useless Hylian.”</p><p>Lights and colours swirl as the blackness of his mind is filled with sight. Dark eyes above him as wide as the waning moon in the night sky, a single blue diamond, dark grey skin. Link is on his back, lying on the cool midnight grass. Ghirahim is kneeling beside him. A hand is on his shoulder, gently.</p><p>Gasping, Link pushes that hand away and shoves himself back along the grass. He’s panting. He’s gulping air like he’s never going to get enough. That feeling, that cold dead feeling–</p><p>The demon doesn’t come closer, but he does stand up. Link digs his fingers into the ground, balling up clumps of dirt, trying to dig his way out of his own panic.</p><p>“Perhaps a midnight lesson was ill-advised,” Ghirahim says, frowning down at him. He waves his hand and disappears in a cloud of diamonds. <em>Return yourself to bed. It wont do to have you passing out from exhaustion tomorrow.</em></p><p>Fingers shake as they freeze just above a black leather-covered hilt. He’s afraid, he’s so afraid he can’t move.</p><p>
  <em>What are you doing?</em>
</p><p>Sucking in a breath of air, Link picks up the sword.</p><p>It’s warm. There’s… <em>something</em> there, energy from this hilt flowing against his palm like always.</p><p>There’s none of that drowning flood of nothing, none of that feeling of having everything taken away. But the memory of it is fresh on his body, stinging his cheek, skirting across his lips.</p><p>He looks down at his side, expecting a deep gash. Nothing. The same scars on the same skin he’s always had.</p><p><em>Stand up and return to your mortal slumber. You clearly need it</em>.</p><p>Link closes his eyes. That voice is sonorous. There’s… <em>feeling</em> in it. Life. A lilting lull like music. </p><p>Link is still shaking when he sets Ghirahim against the wall next to his bed. Even as he crawls under the covers, that hollow voice is still in his head, and the rigid slice of a black saber sinks into the bones of his dreams. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(I think Ghirahim calls him 'human' in sws but I can't wrap my head around that so it's 'Hylian' still. I might go back and change it someday, depending on how the story unfolds). This is the ch where I'm afraid of losing readers;; I hope everyone else wanted a mess like this, bc I know I do ;v;</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rito Village</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Content warning</b>: mentions of killing children! just for like 0.2 seconds. but that's heavy so there's your warning.</p><p>This is a long one. No time for chapter length consistency here! </p><p>Also full disclosure - I'm still a fraud - I associated the smell of pine with Revali in this and probably stole that from Pine Song, even though I've never read it.</p><p>Thank you for all the comments and kudos :')</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mid morning light seeps through his eyelids as Link crawls into consciousness. Waking up always feels like tearing himself away from somewhere warm, always takes him a long time and a lot of groaning. Lying on his side, he rolls over onto his back, breathing out slowly. The bustle of other patrons in the stable, chatting and readying for the day, goes unheard by pointed ears.</p><p>As Link shifts on the bed, his hand falls next to his cheek. The back of it lands on something hard. Blond brows knit up tight, his nose twitching, eyes still shut. What's that? The back of his hand burns, but in the warm way firelight burns when you're at the place just before it starts to hurt. He breathes out deeply again, brow relaxing. With daylight slipping through closed lids, his vision is nothing but red. Link rolls over with a soft groan, lying on his side now, facing that heat. His palm falls flat over that sweet-burning touch. The fiery sensation shifts with direct contact. It changes to something calm, deathly quiet like the space between stars. </p><p>Voided, empty—</p><p>Link's eyes snap open, memories of last night flying through his head. Blaring, his gaze drops down and he sees that the sword is lying next to him. In <em>bed</em> with him. He recoils his hand, his breath catching. Just the hilt, he'd only been touching the hilt; why is it in the bed at all? His heart bangs against his ribcage, rattling his brain. The cold cut of a saber digs into his side. That ugly, nothing feeling seeps in.</p><p>
  <em>Don't bleed out on me, boy.</em>
</p><p>Link tries to breathe. <strike></strike></p><p>What <em>was</em> that? A hallucination? A memory from a hundred years ago? It wasn’t like any of the other memories he’d had since waking up. Not at all.</p><p>It had felt like Link was really <em>there</em>, not just watching the past play out inside his head.</p><p>Why… Why was he blind? No one – not Impa or the King or Zelda – had ever said anything about him being blind a hundred years ago.</p><p>How much of last night really happened? Had the lizalfos even attacked? Had Ghirahim actually tried to teach him basic combat skills in the middle of the night? Or was it all just a dream?</p><p>Link has held his sword too many times to count by now, and it's never hurt, not like... that. The energy from Ghirahim's sword is a lot, overpowering with a loudness Link's never felt, overflowing just like the forest he'd found him in. But it doesn't scare him. Not like last night. Even seconds ago, with his hand on it in half-sleep, that starry far-off feeling…</p><p>It wasn't bad.</p><p>It just felt like Ghirahim was… sleeping.</p><p>Link runs his hand through his hair, tugging roughly and staring down at black steel lying flat on the bed.</p><p>He's never been blind. He couldn’t have been. Someone would have told him. <em>Zelda</em> would have told him. He wouldn't remember her face, either, he realizes, and the pictures on the sheikah slate would be useless if he hadn’t been able to see before.</p><p>Slowly, he sits up on the bed, gaze following a slash of black over white sheets. One hand gripping the blankets under him, Link holds the other over that dark hilt, only an inch away. His fingers shake, just slightly; faintly he feels that starry void, and finally Link lets his hand fall to the hilt. He breathes out as fingers wrap around it, lifting it gingerly off the bed.</p><p>“Ghirahim,” he says, pulling the sword up with both hands.</p><p>That red gem flickers.</p><p>“Feel up for a fight?”</p><p><em>First thing in the morning?</em> The demon whispers in his head, voice the burning hum of resonating steel. <em>Oh how lucky a sword am I.<br/>
<br/>
</em></p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Link finds a group of monsters not five minutes from the stable, in the opposite direction from Rito Village. One moblin and three bokoblins. They’re lumbering around a pond, horns and clubs waving in the dewy morning air. They’re pretty easy to sneak up on normally, but there’s no place to hide on top of this cliff, leaving sneaking out of the question.</p><p>The moblin sees him in seconds. With the horn at its hip it alerts the bokoblins a few feet away, and before he knows it he has four monsters coming in for him.</p><p>Luckily the bokoblins are far enough away that he should be able to do this one at a time.</p><p>Reaching over his shoulder, Link pulls the sword out, pointing it towards the beast.</p><p>
  <em>What an unfortunate looking creature.</em>
</p><p>“Moblin.”</p><p>
  <em>That is a moblin?</em>
</p><p>No time to talk, Link steps forward with one foot, bringing the sword with him in a smooth strike. Metal meets a wooden club. The moblin snarls down at him, spit and bad breath wafting across his nose and cheeks. Shifting on his feet, Link bunts the sword forwards, sending the monster one stumbling step back. He rushes in next, digging his feet into the grass, and bends at his knees to cut cleanly across the beast’s blue abdomen while it flails.</p><p>Bright purple blood stains the grass. The moblin dies, violet vaporous magic disappearing into the air after it hits the ground.</p><p>Not done yet, Link tenses and listens hard. The sound of thudding footsteps comes from behind him. He can hear the bokoblin panting as it runs, a snuffled snarling noise.</p><p>He flips the black hilt in his hands, sending the sword behind him, turning to follow the direction of its point. Movement water-smooth Link makes a direct hit, though the blade doesn’t sink in deep enough to kill it. He only managed to stab the bokoblin in the shoulder. Facing the beast now, he narrows his eyes. It has a sword – clearly a discarded one it’d picked up from one set of ruins or another.</p><p>
  <em>I see your feeble mind has managed to retain some of my instruction from last night.</em>
</p><p>“Huh?” Link hadn't heard him, too busy back-stepping away from a swinging rusted blade.</p><p>
  <em>Do not make me repeat myself.</em>
</p><p>“I’m busy–”</p><p>
  <em>Your inability to do two things at once is alarming.</em>
</p><p>“What did you say?”</p><p>
  <em>A mystery for the ages.</em>
</p><p>“Tell me,” Link says, turning in a half-circle to dodge the rusted sword as it seeks out his rib cage. Instead of using Ghirahim’s blade as a counter-weight as he’d done before, he lets it lead him, following behind as if tied by a string.</p><p>
  <em>Do you imagine you can simply command me to do so?</em>
</p><p>The demon’s voice sounds rushed, disjointed. Link can’t help the smile that slips up half his face as he says, “I want to know.” He gets the bokoblin right between the eyes this time, a quick jab. It hits the ground a second later. Its rusted sword clatters uselessly over a small rock.</p><p>
  <em>How unfortunate for you.</em>
</p><p>“Are you–”</p><p>The second bokoblin charges him, cutting off any reply Link might have made. He’d done well killing them off fast enough to not need to deal with more than one at once. There’s still one more after this, Link knows, somewhere down the lip that wraps around the cliff. A chime rings out, signalling its location -- about ten yards away.</p><p>The one right in front of Link screams in his face, as if it knew somehow his focus had shifted. Gripping the sword tight, he starts to swing the sword – but realizes he can’t. The monster is too close. With Ghirahim’s long reach the best he could hope for would be to knock the beast sideways. While that would be at least helpful, something nags at him, some half-remembered action, and his muscles move without thought. </p><p>Link sets his hand flat over the crossguard of Ghirahim’s sword. Eyes narrowed with focus, he slides his hand up the blade, feeling black steel drag against his palm. Link stops about half-way up. Unthinking, his breaths are slow and even. </p><p>Pulling the sword back towards his shoulder, he lines up its sharp tip with a red abdomen. A harsh grunt escapes his mouth as Link thrusts the sword forcefully through the monster’s middle, guiding it with a palm on its blade and a hand wrapped around its hilt.</p><p>The bokoblin squeals as its pierced, and falls over dead in seconds.</p><p>The third and last one is on him in an instant, a chime ringing out to his left. Link moves sideways, his foot skidding across grass. He turns the sword in a direct and exact arc, his legs straining. He kills the last bokoblin with a stab through its throat, palm on black steel still guiding the blade to its target.</p><p>The bokoblin falls backwards, landing on the grass with a thud and leaving Link standing alone on the cliffside, panting.</p><p>Sucking air through his nose in realization, he drops his hand from the demon’s blade, eyes widening. “Sor–” </p><p>Laughter. Sharp, shrill. Ghirahim is <em>laughing</em>, Link realizes wildly. It’s dark and manic. It’s more of a cackle. But his hands are warm where they’re holding onto a black hilt.</p><p>They’re warmer than anything.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Ghirahim could positively <em>moan</em> he is so relieved to be wielded well again. How had the helpless Hylian gone from horridly incomptent to slightly better than half-decent overnight? Certainly Ghirahim had run him through various drills during the midnight hours, but this is far beyond <em>that</em>. Perhaps combat is simply innate in Hylia’s crafted hero and all that is required is a quick memory jog for that divine magic to right his fumbling muscles.</p><p>The taste of fresh blood and the water-smooth way he’s wielded, pulled through the air in threads, guided by rough hands; if he had a body to shiver with, Ghirahim is certain he would.</p><p>The laughter that erupts from him is wholly unexpected. Yet when Link holds him in a half-sword and stabs him through a bokoblin’s abdomen and then through another’s throat, direct and exactly both times, bursting through bone – it shakes through him, vibrating his steel. It has been three thousand years since anyone held Ghirahim adeptly. It cannot be helped. He cackles with laughter, blood coating his black blade under the morning sun.</p><p>After the beast is dead, the hand that had been flat on his blade pulls back as if stung. Link is saying something, but it is entirely lost to the demon. Two hands hold his hilt again.</p><p>Ghirahim’s red gem shines, unable and unwilling regardless to help it.</p><p>
  <em>Surely such sudden talent deserves a reward.</em>
</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>The demon unfurls himself from his blade, appearing in a wave of singing diamonds. The view from the high, grassy cliff they’re currently standing on – the place of his most recent slaughter – is a beautiful landscape of rolling greenery and distant mountains. Yet the demon sees little else save for a blond head, a gaping pink mouth, and wide, blue eyes.</p><p>He sets himself in place of his own sword, his back in the palms of two Hylian hands, and sends the blade to its resting place on Link’s shoulders.</p><p>Ghirahim impersonates a swoon, leaning back against Link’s hands. He sags heavily.</p><p>The hero makes a ridiculous ‘oof’ noise at the sudden burden of his weight.</p><p>“My poor fumbling swordmaster,” the demon says. “What a <em>pretty</em> little surprise. You have left me positively quivering.” </p><p>Blue eyes blink down at him in obtuse perplexion. Link’s mouth is hanging open, but it’s more of a confused gape rather than that delicate slight-wonder.</p><p>“What?” the hero asks.</p><p>Ghirahim sags himself down further, a grin cutting his left cheek. He’s at the mercy of a pale blue glare then, eyes that match the sky behind his sun-blond head.</p><p>“You’re heavy,” Link says with a groan, his arms tightening.</p><p>The demon elects to sag down further, relinquishing the majority of his weight. “You have carried me thus far, hero.” He bends his spine until those hands are on his lower back and he’s folded into a full arch, his white hair nearly on the grass.</p><p>“What are you <em>doing</em>?” Link asks, shifting his stance to hold him up, strain clear in the final word. </p><p>Ghirahim cackles again, a bright chiming undertone to it. “Rewarding you, of course.”</p><p>Still folded over peach palms, the demon waves one white gloved hand through the air.</p><p>With a spell he sends himself to stand on top of one of the bokoblin corpses. He sets a hand over his chest, pressing into his red cloak.</p><p>“It has been so long, I nearly forgot the rush of beautiful slaughter!” He grips his cloak as if overcome and brings his other hand up to his face, curling his fingers in a dramatic flourish. “How sweet it feels to be utilized by even <em>moderately</em> capable hands.”</p><p>Ghirahim catches pale blue eyes, only the quickest moment. Smile like an over-sharpened knife, he waves a hand again.</p><p>This time his shower of diamonds sends him near the edge of the canyon that leads to Rito Village, his back facing the three-hundred foot drop.</p><p>“I could end my life right here on the very edge of this cliff,” Ghirahim says, sweeping an arm dramatically from left to right, “I will never be any happier.”</p><p>The hero narrows his eyes at him.</p><p>Grinning at that heated glare, the demon flips his white fringe with a flick of his fingers, and then he steps backwards off the cliffside. The Hylian ought to know it poses no risk to him. Ghirahim has teleported himself innumerable times in his presence. Yet his eyes widen and his mouth opens to the first syllable of his name and he takes a sudden step forwards-</p><p>The demon waves a hand before he’s fallen even a foot. In a cascade of diamonds he appears in front of Link, a warm bout of magic following him like wind. The hero freezes, perhaps in shock. But those thick blond brows fall into yet another frown, and the hand that had been reaching out drops to his side.</p><p>“Don’t do that,” Link says.</p><p>The demon grins down at him, his tongue running across the back of his bottom row of teeth. He lets it poke under one sharp fang, delighting at the shining eyes that shift to watch even through their fiery glare.</p><p>“What shall I do instead, then, to show my utmost gratitude for this pleasant little surprise?” Ghirahim takes a slow step closer.</p><p>The hero stays right where he is, those irises darting back and forth as the demon moves.</p><p>Humming as if in contemplation, Ghirahim sets a white finger on a peach throat. The skin is so malleable, so unbelievably smooth, so vulnerable. Watching the indentation his finger forces as he presses in, Ghirahim trails a line down to the hero’s chest.</p><p>A soft noise escapes a pink mouth.</p><p>Still smirking, though now his own mouth is open to show pointed fangs and a lilting tongue, the demon breathes out a satisfied sigh. He slips his finger onto the belts that secure his blade to Link’s back. One strap runs across his chest, tight and firm to hold the weight of his sword on high, and the other wraps around his left shoulder. Without a shirt, the sight is far more stimulating than it need be.</p><p>Ghirahim slips his whole hand beneath those belts, gripping harshly.</p><p>And then he tugs up, once and firm, lifting Link to his toes.</p><p>Link makes a noise. Three thousand years ago that particular sound would have lifted his spirits considerably. Now however, on this cliffside in this present, it had not been the desired reaction. The shout from parted lips is strangled and in pain.</p><p>The skin is still raw under the belts from prior to the Great Fairy's interference. Smirk disappearing, Ghirahim lets go slowly. Link is set back down on the grass.</p><p>For a moment he considers carrying his own blade, perhaps only for a day; long enough at least to give these pesky wounds time to heal. That would be a fitting reward, would it not?</p><p>“Have you no means to heal these faster?” he asks, still fingering the belts but no longer tugging. Surely the goddess wouldn't leave her hero to fester with his wounds.</p><p>He's given nothing in response. Link's mouth is clamped up and he is staring. What does that blank look mean? That he has no way to speed up the healing process, that he does not want to, that Ghirahim need not worry, that he has no good sense in his head? Any of those are likely.</p><p>Pink lips part as if about to say something, and the demon waits, idly prodding at the belts.</p><p>But they close a moment later, nothing forthcoming.</p><p>All that waiting for naught. How irritatingly familiar.</p><p>Suddenly, a blaring brightness takes over Link's face. An expression of delighted realization. In a fluid motion he untangles the belts from Ghirahim's hand, pulling away from him and scurrying off.</p><p>The Hylian heads towards the moblin’s corpse and picks up its fallen horn. This he stuffs into his seemingly-magical inventory.</p><p>With a satisfied huff he returns to Ghirahim, a small stupid smile on his face.</p><p>“You make very little sense,” the demon says.</p><p>Link shrugs, his smile prevailing.</p><p>Sighing with annoyance, Ghirahim sends a rush of diamonds around his face, merely to wipe that foolish grin from it. Yet the cascade slips slightly, falling down around Link’s shoulders and neck instead; what he had intended to be an irritant only brings a bright laugh from parting lips, some disturbingly happy sound he would rejoice in never needing to suffer through again.</p><p>Before the foolish Hylian can finish his misplaced laughter, Ghirahim, suddenly rife with exasperation, waves himself inside his blade once more.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Feeling warm magic prick at his skin, Link blinks when Ghirahim suddenly disappears.</p><p><em>Enough of this.</em> Comes his familiar call. <em> We have a beast to slay, do we not?</em></p><p>Nodding, Link opens his mouth, sound spilling out; easier when he's got nothing to look at. “Just need to eat, then we can head into the village.”</p><p>There's no reply from the demon, but Link can't stop smiling anyway. The sword at his back feels warm on his skin. It feels like an overwhelmed garden, like a forest with too many leaves pouring down from the tops of cloud-scraping trees.</p><p>The demon on his back is a lot of things – passionate, overdramatic, bloodthirsty, a little strange, rude – but he’s <em>not</em> empty.</p><p>It was just a dream.</p><p>Rubbing a hand over his mouth, Link heads back to the stable.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The hanging bridge under his boots sways in the strong wind, his hair blowing into his face right along with it. Link makes his way across the wooden planks that connect the various peaks leading to the village, staring up at its sky-high architecture with a small smile.</p><p>The homes and other buildings of Rito Village are stacked in atriums, piled high on top of each other and built along sides of a pillar-like rock. While there are some wooden walkways leading to various places, generally flight negates the need for anything like stairs or ladders. To Link it all looks like a gigantic, complicated weaving of landings and atriums, wood slathered with brightly painted symbols he doesn't know – or couldn’t remember – the purpose or meaning of. </p><p>As he nears the village, Link wonders in the back of his head if there are any Rito who can’t fly, whether by birth or by accident, and what they do; if they're accommodated somehow. There must be at least one… </p><p>He shivers as they continue to walk. The Tabantha region is cooler than Hyrule Field had been, and cooler still than Kakariko Village. He can already feel the hairs on his arms standing up from the breeze up here. Hopefully they'll have some Hylian clothes for sale; they did last time and he's got some rupees now, thanks to Ghirahim constantly insisting he fight every monster they cross paths with.</p><p>Coming up to the front entrance, Link is greeted by Mazli, the same guard who had met him before.</p><p>“Hello, Link,” he says, his spear hitting the wood under them as he shifts on his talons. Behind him, the main wooden rope-bridge to Rito Village sways in the wind. Mazli’s beak turns down and he squints warily. “That's... certainly a sword you have there.”</p><p>Link nods. The sound of the wooden bridge creaking fills the following silence.</p><p>“Are you back for Medoh?” He asks, eyeing Link’s shoulder where a black hilt juts out, the shape of a flared crossguard overwhelming his frame. A feathered hand grips tighter around a speer.</p><p>Link nods again, doing his best to look non-threatening. </p><p>“I still don’t think it’s a good idea. The beast has wounded our strongest warriors, and killed others.” Mazli steps out of the way, giving Link much more space than he needs to get by. “Elder Kaneli will want to know you’ve returned.” </p><p>Nodding for the third time, the blond steps under the small painted archway, and enters Rito Village.</p><p>Intricately carved wood, atriums lined with colourful flags, and yellow light from oil lamps meet Link’s searching eyes. The sound of flight is constant – Rito coming and going from the various landings and levels of their homes, flying from one to another or returning from the sky itself. Rito Village has its own sort of song, different from anywhere else he’s been in Hyrule so far. The small calls of young kids learning how to fly, the louder calls of their parents, vibrations of wings in the air, tapping of taloned feet on sturdy wood, and the rumbling cry of Vah Medoh surging through the skies overhead. </p><p>Link closes his eyes for a brief moment, just to take it all in. </p><p>Elder Kaneli is all the way at the very top of Rito Village’s stacked levels. Link walks up the winding plank of the first level, making his way past various shops and the single inn the village has. Each Rito who sees him takes a step back, or otherwise stops what they’re doing to stare openly. When he passes by Misa, the owner of the general store, she doesn’t return his small wave. The further up the winding plank he goes, the more he notices the wide birth he’s given. </p><p>It’s like they think he’s sick.</p><p>Link slumps a little as he continues to walk. </p><p>Is it going to be like this everywhere they go?</p><p>Inside his head, bright and clear, Ghirahim is laughing. <em>Are you surprised, boy? It is merely a result of how I look to these puerile birds.</em></p><p>“How do you look, exactly?” he snaps, angrier than he expected to be. His hands ball into fists and he keeps his frown trained forward.</p><p>No reply comes from the sword, and for the moment Link is grateful. He uses the silence to take a few deep breaths. If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is. He’ll make it work.</p><p>Eventually he comes to the end of the wooden plank of the first level. Shifting the belt across his chest to re-adjust the sword, he faces the stone pillar that cuts through the centre of Rito Village. There aren’t any ladders, he’d run out of wood to walk up, and he can’t fly – so climbing it is.</p><p>With a huff and a jump he attaches himself to the pillar. A few Rito turn to stare at him, unused to a Hylian in their village. Paying them no mind, he begins making his way up the pillar.</p><p><em>Your back is wet</em>, the demon in his head says once Link is about halfway, his voice full of disgust. </p><p>Panting, the blond grits his teeth through his reply. “Try to enjoy the view.”</p><p>
  <em>You climb like a skulltula.</em>
</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>
  <em>Similar to a spider.</em>
</p><p>“Is that a compliment, then?” he asks, jaw tight with effort.</p><p>
  <em>Oh absolutely not. Skulltula are abhorrent creatures. All those sickly little legs.</em>
</p><p>He laughs once, eyes trained on the stone pillar. “I could use a few more legs right now.” </p><p>
  <em>Not a mental image I had ever desired. Please release me from your back; once again death is preferable to your horrid attempts at conversation.</em>
</p><p>Link laughs fully this time. “I bet–” he tries, his breaths short and quick, “I bet if I– if I was a skul…” His left foot slips and he slides a few feet downward, boots skidding across stone. Link catches himself, fingers gripping tight on jutting-out rock, arms shaking. </p><p>He’d done this no problem last time he’d been here.</p><p><em>Enough.</em> Ghirahim’s sonorous voice is a fog that engulfs his head, whiting out any other thoughts. <em>Focus.</em></p><p>A few minutes later, Link hauls himself into the Rito Elder’s atrium, rolling onto the wooden floor like a wet noodle. Lying on his back, he drinks down air, cold in this higher altitude against his burning lungs.</p><p><em>At least lie on your front, you useless Hylian.</em> </p><p>“Sorry,” he says through a panting breath. But he doesn’t roll over. Hand on his chest, Link takes a few more gulps of air and then he sits up. </p><p>The Elder is in his usual seat, sound asleep. Running a hand through his hair, Link walks over to stand in front of Kaneli, looking up at his twirling feathery face and orange beak.</p><p>He clears his throat, wind whistling through the wooden atrium at the very peak of the village.</p><p>Two beady bird eyes pop open. </p><p>“Ah, Champion Descendent, I see you have returned,” the Elder says with a hearty tone. “And do you have your legendary…”</p><p>Kaneli stops.</p><p>Link waits.</p><p>The Elder’s swirling feathered eyebrows raise up high, bouncing at their ends, and then drop down low. He leans his great head forward. Peering down his small beak at the blade across Link’s back, he says, “Warrior. That is not your intended sword.”</p><p>Link only stares up at him, expression blank. After a few beats of silence he puts his hands on his hips. </p><p>Kaneli leans back into his chair, black eyes scrutinizing him up and down. “Leave and return with the proper blade, as I told you before.”</p><p>Link shakes his head.</p><p>“Champion Descendant, you must not underestimate the power of Medoh. It has brought the Rito to the brink of extinction. Pride is all that keeps us fighting for our home.”</p><p>“I… I know,” he says, trying to sort his thoughts into words. </p><p>“That beast has killed far too many of my people. I have witnessed the havoc it wreaks for a century.” One feathered hand comes up to stroke his left eyebrow. “The master sword's divine light is all that can quell the calamity that has infected it. What you choose to wield outside of my village is your choice, questionable as it may be,” he says, eyeing the black sword, “But for this task, you <em>must</em> wield the master sword.”</p><p>
  <em>I am far superior to that pathetic metal stick.</em>
</p><p>“This one’s fine,” Link says, trying to ignore the demon. </p><p><em>Fine? FINE? I am MAGNIFICENT and you would do well to remember it, boy.</em><strong><br/>
</strong><br/>
Link wants to swat at Ghirahim’s blade; it’s hard enough to talk through his own thoughts, let alone with that voice in his head. But he’d look crazy if he whacked his sword, so he just frowns and hopes the demon knows it’s meant for him.</p><p>“‘Fine’ is not good enough, Champion Descendant,” Kaneli says, stroking one of his long eyebrow-feathers one last time before setting his great wing down at his side. “I do not want to seem ungrateful for your help, but you must understand: I cannot risk the lives of my people.”</p><p>Link removes his hands from his hips, opening them palm-up as he talks. “You won’t. <em>I</em> won’t,” he says. “I can tame Medoh without the master sword.”</p><p>The Elder scrutinizes him, tugging a feathered hand down his braided beard now. He falls quiet, clearly thinking.</p><p>Link hears the sounds of flight all around him, feels the cold breeze on his cheeks, shoulders, and torso. Waiting in muted silence, he closes his eyes. Warm steel at his back sends his skin into scattering bumps as another cool wind flattens itself across the back of his neck. </p><p>He takes a deep breath. Waits.</p><p>Eventually, Kaneli speaks.</p><p>“I am out of options and in no place to refuse,” he says with a gravid sigh, the nostril holes in his beak whistling. “Very well. If you are to be stubbornly adamant, I concede.” He nods his great head, the braid slipping down towards his knees. “But know this, Descendant: If you die you have doomed us all. I have not seen any other being wield that slate in a century. If there is any hope of freeing Medoh, of saving my people... You are all there is.”</p><p>Link only nods, once and stern.</p><p>“You must meet with Teba,” Kaneli says, lying back into his seat with a sigh. “He is the only warrior left to face Medoh. Harth must rest a fractured wing, and the others are far too wounded to continue. Teba’s home is on the third level, toward the west.”</p><p>Link is just about to leave after another nod, when the Elder speaks again.</p><p>“And <em>you</em>, spirit of that blade.” </p><p>Every muscle in the blond’s body goes tense. He freezes in the middle of Kaneli’s atrium, warm steel heating his back.</p><p>“You are allowed in my village only as a necessity. Should you harm a single Rito, you will find yourself in the throes of Death Mountain.”</p><p>
  <em>How trite. No aspirations for originality, I see.</em>
</p><p>“As a precaution,” Kaneli says, “you are to remain outside your blade.”</p><p>A sudden chiming sound to Link’s left, along with the familiar fog of diamonds, has Ghirahim standing neatly beside him. His cloak is that magenta the Great Fairy had dyed it; the demon seems to switch colours at random for reasons unknown to Link.</p><p>Ghirahim doesn’t bow. He doesn’t smile. He glowers, harsh and serious and he says, “I can assure you, I am <em>far</em> more dangerous outside of it.”</p><p>Link glares up at him. Why would he make this <em>worse</em>? </p><p>“My people suffer enough from hidden magic. You will face them in plain sight, so they are aware of any threat you may pose.” He looks away from the demon as if waving him off. Dark bird eyes hone in on Link again. Kaneli’s expression changes to stern. “Champion Descendant, keep a tight leash on… whatever matter of being this is. Any harm he commits will be considered your own doing.”</p><p>Ghirahim smirks, a slice of sharp white across his jaw – Link just barely sees it from the corner of his eyes. </p><p>With one last nod and with the blessing of the Elder, Link turns to leave, not wanting to stay long enough for the demon to say anything rude. </p><p>Again.</p><p>As he leaps off Kaneli’s atrium, Link’s surrounded in a rush of diamonds, though none of it obstructs his view. They float sparsely next to his head and near his shoulders. A few trail down his back. Is this Ghirahim following him? They’re magenta, gold and black for the most part, but Link spots a few violet ones in the mix.</p><p>When he lands on the third level, Ghirahim appears beside him, the diamonds fading.</p><p>“Well this should be interesting,” the demon says, dark eyes scanning the area around them. There’s a sneer etched into his angular face, curling his lip and making his prominent nose wrinkle.</p><p>Link breathes out slow as he looks up at him, slightly distressed. He takes in Ghirahim’s sleek white hair, grey skin, and the sharp angle of his chin and wide jaw; his dark eyes, lofty magenta cloak and all the white-patterned diamonds. He can’t say Ghirahim fits in with the quaint backdrop of Rito Village around him, but he doesn’t stand out, either. His clothes are just as bright as any Rito’s, decorated with diamonds and gold instead of feathers and paint, but similar. And… if it weren’t for the teeth he could pass for a Hylian. Maybe. One with really long ears and weirdly coloured skin.</p><p>Link squints up at the demon again, trying to see him like a complete stranger might. </p><p>Ghirahim bares his teeth once he notices he’s being looked at, his eyes widening to reveal pupils so small they barely exist. </p><p>Nevermind.</p><p>“You... You need to be good,” Link says, looking up at his contorted expression.</p><p>The demon lets his tongue slip out. </p><p>“Put that <em>away</em>.” </p><p>Smirking with an open mouth, Ghirahim slithers that tongue back behind his teeth. “It makes no difference. These creatures distrust me automatically.”</p><p>“Rito. Not creatures,” he says. And then, trying to fight off any anxiety in his voice, Link asks, “Are you going to make this impossible?”</p><p>Dark eyes widen even further, the black kohl around them pulling out all the hidden hazel. “I had considered it,” the demon says, his grey face manic in the daylight, “I <em>am</em> curious as to the taste of avian blood.”</p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p>The demon only smirks sharper. “Perhaps for the right price I could…” he twirls a hand, diamonds dancing in front of Link’s eyes, “...<em>restrain</em> myself.”</p><p>The blond huffs, folding his arms as he asks, “What do you want?”</p><p>“Agree to take me to a hot spring at least once on your ridiculous quest, and I shall be ever the gentleman. At least until we put this birdcage behind us.” </p><p>Link deliberates for a moment. There are hot springs around Death Mountain. He’d already tamed Vah Rudania, but they could pass through on their way to the next one. His map on the slate isn’t filled out, but there’s a marker for another beast towards the west of Hyrule. They can’t idle – Zelda is alone with Ganon and has been for a century – but Link needs spirit orbs or he’ll die trying to save her; he needs to get better at fighting; he needs to be <em>ready</em>. They can’t hurry, either.</p><p>“Done,” Link says. He holds out a hand, meaning for them to shake on it .</p><p>Ghirahim waves dismissively, closing his eyes with a sneer. “No need for that.” <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>When they locate the estranged creature's home the bird in question is absent. Only his spouse and hideous offspring meet their arrival, greeting them at their entryway. Well ‘greet’ is not the proper term, Ghirahim supposes. The pink bird grabs her son by his wing and hauls him behind her, as if the mere sight of the demon before them might turn the child to stone.</p><p>If Ghirahim were able to turn these birds to stone on sight, he would be in a <em>much</em> better mood. </p><p>“Teba?” She says once Link has asked after the elusive bird. “What do you want with my husband?” Her eyes track Ghirahim, staying glued to him, nervousness loud on her beaked and feathered face. Ghirahim has never been especially fond of pastels, but this bird wears them well; if she weren’t currently leering at him as if he were about to eat her and her offspring, he might have told her as much. </p><p>Detailed attention to aesthetics denotes such appreciation. </p><p>“We have come to fix your little pest problem,” Ghirahim says, not bothering to hide his teeth or his tongue. </p><p>To the pastel bird’s credit, she does not seem to find these specific traits of his upsetting so much as how he gesticulates with them. Perhaps being beaked, feathered, and taloned gives her a certain perspective.</p><p>Still, she clearly fears him.</p><p>As she should. </p><p>“Pest…?”</p><p>Standing next to Ghirahim, the Hylian sighs longly. Instead of speaking, Link points upwards towards the sky. </p><p>“You are here to tame Vah Medoh? Really?” The bird asks, looking back down at them. Her stance relaxes considerably. She continues to shield her offspring behind her, however. “My husband and Harth have been battling that beast for years. You really intend to help them?” </p><p>Ghirahim remains silent. Beside him a blond head nods, Link’s expression heavy and serious. </p><p>“...Both of you?” </p><p>Blue eyes jump towards him.</p><p>“Yes,” the demon says simply. Ghirahim has no ulterior motives. He wishes Demise dead in this age and if taming these ‘divine beasts’ is a means to that end, he will do so gleefully. Though he will not beg for this bird’s trust. If she does not believe him that is her own prerogative. She is lucky enough to be graced with his civility; the demon would much rather threaten her for information than take part in these platitudes. </p><p>Those springs had better be hot enough to redden his skin. </p><p>“My name is Saki,” she says, “And this is Tulin.” The small bird-child looks up at Ghirahim curiously.  No fear, no nervousness, not enough life yet lived to understand he <em>should</em> be afraid. “Truthfully, I can’t be of much help to you, other than to tell you where to find my husband.” <br/>
<br/>
“Where?” Link asks.</p><p>“He headed to a place called the Flight Range. It’s in Dronoc’s Pass, at the base of the Hebra Mountains. It’s a place where Rito warriors prepare for aerial combat… I imagine he’s gone there to gather weapons for another run at Medoh. If you take off from Revali’s Landing, it’s a straight shot at the Flight Range,” the bird explains, gesturing with an expansive and mauve feathered hand. “But… It is a frigid mountain. Young Hylian, you will need clothes. And… you as well. You will both need something that covers your skin, or is otherwise enchanted. Nekk owns the armoury, down on the first level with all the other stores. Before you head out, I suggest you go there.”</p><p>Link sets a hand on his chest, and then sweeps it out towards the Rito woman, as if offering her something. </p><p>“What’s that?” She asks.</p><p>The Hylian doesn’t answer her, but by now Ghirahim knows the meaning of this particular inane gesture. </p><p>
  <em>Thank you.</em>
</p><p>With that Link turns to leave, making to jump off the third level, hands already reaching for that contraption he uses to traverse the skies.</p><p>They are more than a thousand feet in the air, yet there is no hesitation in his step. The Hylian leaps from the edge and falls into a gentle glide. </p><p>Not that his predecessor ever had any either, although the Skyloft Hero could have, at times, practiced <em>slightly</em> more– </p><p>The pastel Rito in front of him gasps at the scowl suddenly carved into Ghirahim’s face, a feathered hand landing on her chest. He had not aimed this expression at her, but he allows it to gleam in her direction regardless. </p><p>Gradually, he dissolves into a shower of diamonds, falling down off her perch to hover around the Hylian, his blunder into remembrance entirely forgotten. </p><p>Ghirahim refuses to <em>jump</em> on principle alone. Further he has no way to know precisely where Link will land to send himself there, so tracking his body like this is preferable. </p><p>The blond hits the bottom level with a grunt, his boots dropping onto the wooden surface. Ghirahim slips back into corporeality next to him once again.</p><p>Soundless as ever, Link leads them through the winding wooden platforms of Rito’s shops, most of which are military based. These birds seem to have little in the way of comforts. A single shop for food, offering the bare minimum: fruits, vegetables, and water from a spring he could not guess the mechanics of – doubtless magical. Three separate shops for weaponry, mostly touting archery paraphernalia. One armour shop of a tasteless title. By way of comforts they have a store full of musical instruments – but that is all. Otherwise there are no places to sit down and have a meal, no places of rest. Ghirahim knows a people at war when he sees one. </p><p>Not that it is of any concern to him. Certainly he has been the <em>cause</em> of wars in his long life; therefore what pity could he harbour for victims so similar to the ones of his own actions? The Hylians had screamed for their lives when he, along with throngs of other demonic forces, came tearing out of the underworld, Demise at their lead. </p><p>No. He cannot have any pity.</p><p>They enter the armoury. It is made up of yet another circular atrium built of sturdy wood. Hung with ribbons and flags, it is painted in bright colours with symbols likely meaningful to this flock of birds. Ghirahim bides his time sneering at it all. </p><p>“Hello!” The Rito man – presumably the shop owner – says by way of greeting. “Welcome to the Brazen–”</p><p>He halts abruptly, eagle eyes landing directly on Ghirahim. The demon stares back, offering nothing, not a threat or a smile. He assured Link he would <em>behave</em>, not play nice nor play the part of vapid pleasantries. </p><p>“Welcome to the Brazen Beak,” he continues at length, his tone dower and disturbed by distraction. Ghirahim fights to retain his tongue. “My name is Nekk. What can I do for you… Hylians? Today?” </p><p>How dull. Pointed ears and these birds assume he is of the make of Hylia’s fodder? Judging by architecture and decor alone, he had expected the Rito to be much more imaginative. But then, war does <em>muddy</em> the sensibilities. </p><p>This Nekk’s discomfort is nearly palatable. Ghirahim, keeping his promise and having no real desire to enter, waits at the entrance to the shop while Link walks in.</p><p>“Hylian clothes?” The shopkeeper asks, answering the hero’s question. “Yeah, I’ve got some. Don’t see very many of your kind up here, though. Here.” He shuffles through boxes, pulling away clothes clearly meant for broad feathered shoulders and narrow hips, until he finds whatever it is he’s in want of. </p><p>The bird pulls out a coat, boots, and thick pants.</p><p>Link takes the clothes, studying them for a moment. From where Ghirahim is standing, they look to be the right size. The blond begins pulling the sword off is back, undoing belts and slipping them over his head. He sets Ghirahim’s blade down as he always does, sharp tip to the floor and hilt upwards, resting against a wooden half-wall. </p><p>The Hylian pulls the clothes on. The shopkeeper appears minutely scandalized – perhaps these Rito are prudish – and turns away as Link dresses himself. </p><p>The coat comes adorned with something feather-like on its shoulders, a separate chest piece that cinches around the waist in sturdy black armour, and material patterned like a bird’s tail along the back bottom hemline.</p><p>A sudden sound slips from that simple mouth. It is a <em>foolish</em> noise of joy, that very same one Ghirahim had heard earlier that day when the boy had taken the moblin’s horn. </p><p>His sword is picked up and secured once more, belts tied over a thick coat.</p><p>“Look at that! A perfect fit,” the shopkeeper says. </p><p>Ghirahim gazes out across the open air, dark eyes searching for something of note. </p><p>“Was there anything else you needed?”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Nodding, Link turns to look back at Ghirahim, meaning to ask him a question. But the space he had been in, just to the left of the entrance to the armoury, is empty. </p><p>Link tilts his head, blinking once. He hadn’t felt the demon return to the sword. Had he gone to look around on his own? </p><p>Well, he said he’d behave himself.</p><p>Hopefully he meant it. </p><p>Turning back to Nekk, Link says, “I need something for my–” he stops, three different titles tying up his tongue: sword, partner, friend. Link shakes his head; it doesn’t matter, the demon can’t hear him anyway. “Sorry. I need something for my friend.” </p><p>“Ah. The… grey one? With the teeth?” </p><p>With a small smile, one he didn’t mean to make, Link nods. </p><p>Nekk digs through a few more boxes, searching under piles of Rito clothes again. He pulls out a cloak, the colour a dark reddish-purple, like a plum.</p><p>Link takes it, holding it out, trying to keep it off the floor. It doesn't have the same three-pointed shape as the one Ghirahim always wears, and there’s no diamond pattern. The hood isn’t carved into a stiff mantle – is instead lofty and layered. But this dark colour holds Link’s eyes. It's thickened, lined with some sort of fluff. It looks warm, more importantly. </p><p>“This one’s enchanted,” Nekk explains. “Your… friend will be warm, even in that um… suit? That white thing he wears.” </p><p>Do demon swords even get cold?</p><p>Better safe than sorry, Link figures.</p><p>“How much?” he asks, pulling out his pouch.</p><p>He finds Ghirahim only one shop over, standing near a table and peering down at it. Link had tucked the cloak into the slate’s inventory – by far the best magical item the Goddess had given him for his quest – and enters the shop. </p><p>He walks up to stand next to the demon, staring down at the table as well. </p><p>There are musical instruments laid out. An accordion, similar to the one Kass has; some sort of brass instrument Link doesn’t recognize; and a six-stringed harp.</p><p>“Do you play?” The Rito woman who owns the shop asks, standing a good ten feet away from them. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>Link watches something furious leave his dark grey face, and then he watches Ghirahim leave the shop altogether. </p><p>Blinking in the wake of his form, he looks back down at the table. </p><p>“What about you?” The shopkeeper asks, still keeping her distance and looking at the sword slashed across his back. </p><p>Eyes reflecting glistening gold and thin white strings, Link doesn’t answer. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Clothes bought and demon-sword relocated, Link climbs back up to the third level of Rito Village. With the heavy coat on, the belts don't dig into his skin so much, and the wounds below should be able to heal. He still hasn’t made an elixir for it. He can’t seem to find the time <em>or</em> the ingredients to cook anything complicated, lately. </p><p>He follows the directions Saki had given him to the place she’d called ‘Revali’s Landing.’</p><p>Link knows the name. Revali was one of the four other Champions; Impa had told him. But he doesn’t have a face, a voice, or a single memory to go along with the name. Rito come in all different coloured feathers and he doesn’t even have that.</p><p>When did they first meet? Did they like each other? Whenever he hears Revali’s name, Link is hit with a wave of both annoyance and… something else. Nervousness? </p><p>Does that mean anything? Or does he just feel that way from frustration because he can’t remember anything?</p><p>He frowns, staring at the landing in front of him. Standing only a few feet away, he tries to remember. There’s a pressure in his head. Familiar. </p><p>“What are you doing, boy?” A sonorous voice asks. Link is so used to Ghirahim’s words drifting through his head, he jumps a little when the sound comes from beside him. “You have been staring into space for several minutes. Do we not have a <em>Most Sacred Quest</em> to attend to?” The demon asks, sounding like he’d rather be anywhere else. </p><p>Looking away from him, that pressure in his head mounting, Link stares back down at the landing. His mind flips like an overturned stone, something new on its underside; doesn’t he know that symbol? The almost-crescent shape with something like wings. It’s painted in white on the wooden floor, open flatly to the unending sky above it.</p><p>“Do <em>not</em> ignore me, you–” </p><p>“Ghirahim. Just-” he says, barely hearing himself, “Just give me…”  </p><p>A great gust of wind rises from below, slipping through wooden floorboards. It blows up his arms, up his spine, up the back of his neck and through all of his hair. For a solid six seconds Link can’t breathe. </p><p>The memory comes to him like a rush. He’s felt it before, memories of Zelda and Daruk, but the force still knocks him back on his feet.</p><p>It starts with Revali dropping from the sky, rattling the landing with his weight; a tall body, grey like dusted charcol, a great head of fanning feathers and the arrogant way he circles Link while he talks about himself. </p><p>
  <em>Let’s not – pardon me for being blunt – lets not forget that I am the most skilled archer in all of Rito.</em>
</p><p>That head tilted down towards him, beak curved, eyes long and a green brighter than the grass of Hyrule Field. </p><p>Walking behind Link, slow and methodical, each step accented by his silvery voice, a singsong lilt of pride that Link can’t believe he ever forgot. </p><p>
  <em>Yet despite these truths, it seems that I have been tapped to merely assist you.</em>
</p><p>That’s right. He was always mad about that. He trained for <em>years</em>, and his massive ego couldn’t– </p><p>
  <em>All because you have that little darkness-sealing sword on your back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not anymore. What do you have to say for yourself?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unless…</em>
</p><p>The look he’d been given was silk-smooth with contempt, fostered by months of disdain for being chosen as a secondary– </p><p>
  <em>…You think you can prove me wrong?</em>
</p><p><em>I can’t</em>, Link remembers thinking, his voice tying in knots under green feather-lined eyes. <em> I can’t do anything like you can. </em></p><p>If he could just get his mouth to work, maybe he could tell him, even in this memory maybe Link could– </p><p>
  <em>Maybe we should just settle this one on one?</em>
</p><p>Too close, smelled like pine and evergreen from the trees around Rito Village, sharp eyes like gemstones, cut clean through with black slits, right up in his face offering a challenge he’d never known how to meet, a question he’d never known how to answer. </p><p>
  <em>But where? ...Oh, I know. How about up there!</em>
</p><p>Moved away, one wing pointed up to the beast roaring in the sky, but Link had looked at grey feathers, trying to get his mouth to work.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, you must pardon me. I forgot you have no way of making it up on your own.</em>
</p><p>The sweet tone was false, always false, why was it always like that? </p><p>Proud wings had spread wide, their span long-reaching and full-power, then bursting into the sky; wind rushed him, across his neck, his cheeks, all through his hair, unfurling the loose tie he kept it in. Looking up, hair in his face, on his shoulders, always like that, watching aerial acrobatics until a voice as sharp and clear as a soaring arrow – still falsely kind, overly polite – called down to him. </p><p>
  <em>Good luck sealing the darkness!</em>
</p><p>He disappeared into Medoh. Left Link alone on his landing. Left him, hair blowing around his cheeks, mouth opened to words that had never come, and now never could. </p><p>The memory ends with a soft sigh through his nose, always dying out slowly and sinking his heart with remembered sorrow.</p><p>“... your brain finally given up altogether, boy? I will <em>not</em>–” </p><p>“Revali,” Link says with wide eyes, breathing through the name.  </p><p>“<em>What?”</em> </p><p>“Nothing.” He wipes at his face, turning towards the open air in front of him, his back to the demon. The thick fabric of the snowquill suit smells like pine. Link breathes it in. The scent fills his nose and then floods his mind with pictures and words, broken pieces of lost memories returning like shards of glass, unable to be put back together but there nonetheless. “Nothing,” he says again, shaking his head into his sleeve. </p><p>“Is that your <em>best</em> attempt at deceit?” </p><p>Link looks out towards the Hebra Mountains, leaving his back to the demon. He means to ask if he’s ready to go, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes. His voice is gone. </p><p>Pulling his glider out, Link runs across Revali’s Landing. His boots and his heart are pounding. He drops into the open clear air. He can hear the beat of wings all around him, Rito coming and going, and the droning call of Medoh high above.</p><p>He feels the warm press of magic at his back when Ghirahim is pulled to his blade. His voice is shrill, echoing inside his head as Link glides over the canyon surrounding Rito Village.</p><p>
  <em>You would do well to warn me, boy. I will not be yanked around as if leashed.</em>
</p><p>Wind shakes through Link’s hair, the tie long gone. He doesn’t say anything. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The landscape shifts gradually, white snow falling down in shimmering blankets. Ghirahim rests idly within his sword as the Hylian lands on the soft ground with a small grunt. The air is frigid, biting at his dark steel.</p><p>When Ghirahim had been with his rightful master, he had not cared if he felt hot or cold, not cared for rest; he had never wanted for anything. Snow could bite at his blade and he would not heed it. Molten lava could lick at his heels, searing his skin, and the fact of pain would be meaningless. At the time he had hardly noticed it, let alone desired for its end. </p><p>His senses have since been altered. Peering at the snowy mountains surging over them, he does not permit himself thoughts of why or how. </p><p>Although this winter terrain is not the demon’s first encounter with such elements, he yet finds the fact of alternating sensations and their implications… unpleasantly mortal. </p><p>For the most part.</p><p>There are benefits to being able to feel, he supposes, recalling the first time he had sunk himself to his hilt in hot water. As Demise’s sword such frivolous action would have left him feeling empty; yet on his own, as liberated as he could be, the pressure of hot water was delectable. </p><p>Still, the raucous, ice-laden wind pelting at his blade is one sensation he could do without. </p><p>There is nothing for it, however. The snow is a simple fact. Ghirahim has withstood harsher realities that had chilled him deeper than this ice could ever hope to. </p><p>Suddenly the Hylian, who had been walking steadfast as ever towards a path up the mountain, stops in his tracks.</p><p>Link’s mouth opens. His words are quiet. “Are you… Do you… I…” He trails off. Doubtless he is distracted by some bug in flight or some other small pointless creature his eyes had caught a glimpse of, as he so often is. </p><p>Ghirahim snaps through the hero’s head. <em>I could cut your tongue out and it would make little difference.</em></p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>
  <em>What semantical endeavour are you attempting to wrap that useless thing around? </em>
</p><p>Link squints his eyes in confusion, tilting his head. “What?” </p><p>A red gem flutters with furious light. <em>What are you trying to SAY, boy?</em></p><p>“Ah- I…”</p><p>More silence while his blank stare remains trained obediently on the sky, as if there were anything but clouds up there to stare at.</p><p>
  <em>If you do not have any words to impart then keep that mouth of yours closed. I will not–</em>
</p><p>Ghirahim is moved, suddenly. Now-gloved hands wrap around his hilt, as firm as ever, and Link pulls him out, the click of the fairy’s magic releasing him. Still silent, the blond turns the blade around in a twirl. He sets the tip of the sword to rest against the top of one boot. Holding him with one hand now, the Hylian pulls out a blanket of sorts, seemingly from nowhere. </p><p>Soft, warm, plum-coloured fabric is draped around Ghirahim’s blade. The hero wraps him in slow circles, layering the thick cloth, a concentrated gleam in his eyes. Fingers never touch any part of him save for his hilt. One single space is left: an opening over his red diamond, allowing the demon his sight. </p><p>Still silent, Link lifts his sword up once again and sets Ghirahim back into place.</p><p>The click of a magic latch echoes throughout the snow covered mountains. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>This ‘Teba’ turns out to be far less wary of him than the other Rito had been. Ghirahim had released himself from his blade – upon insistence from the stubborn Hylian – and smirked up at the large white bird. Yet the creature had only raised his brow and said, ‘Alright, you’ve got a sword possessed by a strong spirit, so what?’ </p><p>If he was at all afraid of Ghirahim, he did not show it. Truthfully he’s a little disappointed. Frightening these avian abominations had been entertaining at the very least, and so little else in this quaint village is. </p><p>“Let’s get one thing straight,” Teba says, looking down at Link once again, Ghirahim beside him but largely unheeded. “I’m not going anywhere. I can’t rest until my people are safe. There’s only one way I’m going back to Rito Village, and that’s with Vah Medoh crashing to the ground in a heap.”</p><p>Gripping one hand into a fist, the foolish hero gives no verbal retort. Teba looks at his hand, then his determined face, with blatant – and warranted – skepticism. </p><p>“I don’t care if the Elder sent you. I won’t entrust this task to some random Hylian. Go back to wherever you came from and leave me to save my people.”</p><p>The bird sits back down after that, resting on his knees and staring resolutely at the deep gorge they are currently within.</p><p>The hero, of course, says nothing. He pouts. His frame deflates. His expression, previously blank, carries notes of frank disappointment, of insecurity. </p><p>Ghirahim feels his teeth grind together. Does the boy expect to get anywhere in this task with his utter ineptitude? Is his lack of sense unrelenting? What had happened at the landing that has torn his voice from him so thoroughly? </p><p>Hissing under his breath, the demon snaps his fingers. In a rush of diamonds that twirl like smoke he appears in front of the Rito. Ghirahim looms over this arrogant white bird, letting his teeth gleam in all their sharp glory, knowing them to be the brighter white of the two. </p><p>“<em>Bird</em>,” he snaps, bent at his hips and smiling viciously, “This Hylian, <em>pathetic</em> as I know he may seem, holds more power in the palm of his hands than any you could hope to stumble so luckily upon.” A white gloved hand slides up, pressing the tips of his fingers together as he orates; he catches a glimpse of plum-coloured fabric on his own body and decisively ignores it. “We can subdue your beast with or without your <em>help</em>,” he says, ensuring his tone speaks to how unimportant said ‘help’ would truly be. “I suspect though, due to his pitiable sentimentality, he would much rather do it <em>with</em>.” Ghirahim then, his lips curled and tone ever sharper, brings his hand down towards a feathered face filled with contempt. “If it were up to me, your whole village would be burning,” he says, and flicks the Rito directly on his hideous orange beak. “That would cook that goose in the sky, I’m sure.” </p><p>The demon pauses, expecting to be told to stop, or for a rough hand to attempt to pull him away. Neither events occur. Glowering still at this thankless pest, he continues. “Be grateful for the help the world provides you. Are you not at war?” He pulls his finger against his thumb, preparing to unleash one spell or another; he pauses in his ministrations once again, expectantly. </p><p>Nothing.</p><p>When he peers over at a blond head, the Hylian is staring out at the wind. </p><p>Ghirahim seaths – magic cracks at his fingertips – but the white bird speaks. </p><p>“Rude as you are,” Teba says, rubbing at his beak and frowning, “You’re right.” </p><p>Pale blue eyes swing towards him; Ghirahim, dying magic on his fingertips, presses his mouth closed thinly.  </p><p>“We have been battling Medoh on our now for so long, it is second nature for me to expect to do it alone. And, as I am sure you know, it was a Hylian who failed to slay Ganon a hundred years ago. Prejudice as it may be, I find your kind difficult to trust.” </p><p>The blond turns away from Ghirahim, facing this white bird once again. The demon’s scowl continues. How idiotic to let simple predejuice stand in the way of victory.</p><p>“But far be it from me to talk you off the ledge,” Teba says. He stands back up, stretching his wings. “If you want to help, fine. But I’ll need to test you before we go.”</p><p>Minutes later, Link is standing on the edge of the wooden platform, ready to complete this bird’s trivial task. His hair, still fallen from his usual tie, blows into his face. </p><p>Scowling, Ghirahim stomps over before the useless Hylian takes off. He is apt to gore himself on a rock with all that fluttering blond hair in his eyes. </p><p>He all but shoves the tie into peach hands.</p><p>Link, surrounded by wind and the familiar smell of pine, doesn’t notice. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The demon denotes to wait within the shelter of the atrium, peering up at a blotch of blond as Link moves through the wind tunnels of this canyon. The sword is still on his back. The white pest had suggested leaving it behind due to its weight, but Link hadn’t appeared to have heard him. </p><p>Ghirahim’s brows draw down. He has little patience for such negligence. </p><p>A frigid gust of wind blows through, forcing his hair out of place. With a huff he fixes it, smoothing long strands down over his ear. The wind itself, he thinks, is far more irksome than the cold temperature it comes with. </p><p>Glowering, Ghirahim pulls foreign fabric around his shoulders and continues to watch.</p><p>Once he’s hit the last target, Link glides himself back onto the ledge. The white bird is impressed enough to agree to escort them to Medoh at first light tomorrow. Ghirahim sneers at their exchange. All of this had been obtuse and pointless. Had they merely gone for the beast immediately, they could have completed the task by now. </p><p>As it were, the Hylian returns them to the village, promising to meet this Teba back here at first light.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Link stands at the front counter of Swallow’s Roost, the only inn Rito Village has. His hands are on his hips, and sixty rupees sit on the counter between him and Cecli, the owner of the inn. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says, eyeing the sword across his back and the demon standing behind him with what is becoming a familiar wary expression. “But you’re making my guests nervous. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” </p><p>Nodding towards the rupees, Link frowns at her. His money should be just as good as anyone else’s. </p><p>“Take your rupees and go, traveler. There is no bed for you here.” </p><p>Scowling, Link takes the rupees back and stomps out. </p><p>They’ll have to stay the night at the stable. It’s only a two hour walk from the village, but that isn’t the problem, though Link could use the extra time to sleep.</p><p>“There’s no need to stomp about like a child.” </p><p>Frowning at the empty space in front of him, he doesn’t turn to look at the demon.</p><p>“Is such a sour face truly at my expense?” A wave of diamonds cascades over his eyes and the next thing he knows Ghirahim is standing in front of him, cutting off his path. Link stops before he walks right into the plum-coloured cloak. “I told you, did I not? Traveling with me will add a great burden to your journey.” A white gloved hand reaches out. Link watches it, the glare dissolving from his face, replaced with a weary look. “You and I were never meant to walk the same path.” </p><p>Warm fingers slip down the side of his neck and Link barely hears him. He doesn’t know what this is. If it’s some taunt or something more. But his eyes fall closed and he leans into the touch anyway. He’s tired. His head has been full of half-remembered images all day, senses flooded with wind and pine and he’s exhausted from it all. </p><p>“There is no shame in discarding what is of no use to you, boy.” </p><p>Snapping his eyes back open, the frown returns to his face. Eyebrows yank down to the bridge of his nose and Link grabs Ghirahim’s hand. Shoving it away, he steps around the demon and continues towards the village’s exit. </p><p>If Ghirahim had anything to say about it, he doesn’t get the chance. </p><p>“Link!” A familiar voice calls from up high. “And your friend!”</p><p>The blond looks up, his frown fading as his eyes are filled with blue feathers and a proud black beak. </p><p>Kass comes gliding down from the level above them. He lands next to Link, hands empty of their usual accordion. His talons clack on the wooden platform under them. The inn, only a few meters away now, hangs as a backdrop to his cheerful face. </p><p>“Where are you going at such an hour?” Kass asks, looking at the gated exit behind them. “It’s nearly dark.” </p><p>Unable to speak, Link only shrugs, trying to wave off the Rito’s obvious concern.</p><p>Behind him, Ghirahim speaks. “It seems there was no appropriate lodging to be found at the inn.” He gives Kass a leveled look. Nothing dark. Something serious that makes Link glare off toward the stone pillar lining the center of the village. </p><p>“I see,” Kass says, gazing at them both carefully. “Well, Amali and I do not have a lot of space. However....” Link turns back to look up at him. “How would you both like to meet all five of my daughters?” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ghirahim follows behind as this large blue bird leads Link and himself through winding wooden platforms. This ‘Rito Village’ affects a disorganization the demon finds deeply unappealing. It is naught but planks of wood piled precariously into the sky, teetering in the wind and open air. The landings and various platforms are packed patternless atop one another, large spaces between some to allow for flight. It looks like a towering birdcage blotted with holes and wood and flags and offensive bright paint. How could any manner of creature enjoy such a convoluted view? </p><p>Worst of all it resides within an elevated atmosphere. The wind alone is intolerable. </p><p>They cross an unstable bridge that swoops low from one landing to the grassy surface of a cliffside. Technically, Ghirahim notes as a harsh wind sweeps over them (forcing him to – <em>once again</em> – smooth down his hair), this cliff lies <em>outside</em> of the village. Strange. He had been under the impression these avians enjoyed a communal sort of lifestyle. Why would this bird in particular decide to build his nest on the outskirts? </p><p>It is of no consequence to the demon. There is simply little else of note to hold his attention in this glorified aviary. </p><p>The Rito’s home rests on the edge of the attached cliffside. It is a nest of perches, some covered and dome-like, others open to the air. There is a base to it, however: a solitary wooden cabin, the first Ghirahim has seen of its kind in this village. This bird had mentioned meeting Link prior, had he not? Perhaps he is well-traveled, then, and had built this home with a predilection for a foreigne style. </p><p>There is a front door, three landings which Ghirahim can only assume are utilized for flight, and a small pond around the far side, surely magical to be set on the crest of a cliff. Behind that there is a large wooden landing that stretches out into the open air, the purpose of which Ghirahim cannot presume.</p><p>The image before him is not <em>entirely</em> unpleasant to look at, this intricate home of nests and wood. There is detail in the woodwork. Thought behind its implementation. Though the demon generally prefers a bit more decorative flare. </p><p>The blue bird enters his home first, Link following with wide eyes. Ghirahim remains outside the threshold.</p><p>In a frivolous display of mortal excitement, five pairs of taloned feet patter noisily across hardwood. Within seconds the large bird’s wings are filled with his offspring. Various cries of fraternal titles are called out, followed by gratingly high-pitched chirps. The bird spins all of his progeny in a slow circle. Behind this display, smiling from one pointed ear to its opposite, the Hylian utters that ridiculous delighted noise of his. </p><p>Ghirahim shall return to his sword.</p><p>A hand grabs his wrist, rough and sunkissed and strong. That ear-to-ear smile is forced upon him. What had happened to his frown? What had happened to disarm it? Nothing has changed. One person's kindness does not outweigh reality. </p><p>And what of all his prior distraction?</p><p>Ghirahim is tugged rudely towards the Rito's home, blue eyes alight with provocation. </p><p>“You are insufferable,” the demon says, holding his ground easily. “If you believe I will sit and make pleasantries with these parrots, you are even more dim than I had thought.” </p><p>Still grinning, Link shakes his head. Pink lips part but no sound presents itself. This has been the case for most of the afternoon. Even when his voice had resolved to function his words were few and confused at best. While this had seemed to frustrate the boy earlier, now he merely shrugs, smile still lingering. </p><p>He releases Ghirahim's wrist. Gloved fingers slide across his skin. </p><p>Link gestures to himself, then points toward the doorway at the considerable blue bird and his plentiful offspring, now standing in their kitchen. Then he points to Ghirahim, opening his hands and arms wide. </p><p>“Your silent gestures carry no meaning for me. <em>Speak</em>.” </p><p>The blond sighs, long and slowly, as if Ghirahim were the one being obstinate. </p><p>“Do not <em>sigh</em> at me, you useless Hylian.” </p><p>One thick eyebrow springs up.</p><p>“Use your foolish mouth. Or has it finally given up the pretense of its own competence?” </p><p>Link shrugs, folding his arms, that single brow still ticked up.</p><p>“Do not think I won't <em>thrash</em> you within an inch of your life. I promised to be civil towards these birds. You remain within the realm of murderable.”  </p><p>The opposite brow climbs up to meet the first, his expression asking nonverbally, <em>Oh yeah? You're going to fight me? Right here?</em></p><p>Ghirahim seethes, his hands curling at his sides. Was it not this very idiot before him who requested decent behaviour? Why bait him into the opposite?</p><p>The demon bares his teeth and leans in close, bending at his hips to lessen their difference in height. With a sneer and a snap of white fingers he sends a flutter of diamonds directly into Link’s snarked expression. </p><p>Immediately the boy waves a hand through the air as if surrounded by a swarm of flies. Blue eyes close and his nose scrunches up in discomfort.</p><p>“That is <em>no</em> less than you deserve,” Ghirahim says, narrowing his gaze. </p><p>“Woah!!!”</p><p>Link is waving the last of clinking diamonds from his eyes when the sound of talons scattering across hardwood floats out from the doorway. </p><p>Three infantile Rito crowd Link’s legs, each one a different colour. Six eyes gleam up at the demon, honed in and wide with awe. </p><p>“What was <em>that</em>?” The pink one asks, her small wings fanned out behind her. </p><p>“So cool!!” The yellow one exclaims, flapping so harshly her ministration elevates her minuscule frame from the ground. </p><p>“Do me next! I’m ready!!” The red one says, her shoulders squared and beak held high. </p><p>Ghirahim squints down at all three of these pests as if he were regarding a suspicious pile of filth. He has had blessedly little interaction with children over the millennia of his life – outside of murdering them, at least, which he imagines does not count . And even <em>that</em> had been a long time ago.</p><p>With a wave of his hand, one that is perhaps not as elegant as it normally is, the demon clouds himself in diamonds, disappearing.</p><p>Three tiny gasps follow his action, and one small voice says, “Beautiful!!” </p><p>Now sat at the very top of this Rito’s home, Ghirahim smirks. At least <em>one</em> of these birdlings has some sense.  <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Unable to help it, Link laughs. He keeps it quiet. The demon had exiled himself to the top of Kass’s house, just about as far away as he could get; he can’t help but find it a little funny. </p><p>The blond risks it and leaves his gaze upwards<strong>.</strong> Perched on a wooden railing, one leg dangling down and the other resting on a lower rung, his diamond-patterned thighs are exposed to flush-pink setting sunlight. Ghirahim is still wearing the dark plum cloak Link had bought for him. The sapphire diamond on his right ear looks brighter. His legs, from way down here, look long. </p><p>“Kheel, Cree, Kotts!” Kass calls from inside the house. “Leave our guests alone. Come here and help with dinner.” </p><p>Rubbing at the back of his neck, Link follows three of Kass’s kids into their home, taking his boots and gloves off at the door. </p><p>The main floor is a lot like a Hylian house – a kitchen attached to a living space with a fireplace, a rug, and a few spots to sit. Above them, however, the cabin opens up, and Link can see various atriums and platforms. Draping canopies and flags and tapestries hang in every direction, painted bright with symbols he doesn’t know the meaning of. One atrium above him, maybe one of the kid’s rooms, has vines spilling from it. They nearly reach the whole way down to the main floor. </p><p>“Link,” Kass’s voice brings his attention back. “This is my wife, Amali.” He says it with soft eyes. </p><p>Link bows his head politely at her, since he can’t talk and isn’t sure if Kass has told her. </p><p>“Nice to meet you too,” Amli says once Link has righted himself, bringing herself out of her own low bow. “Would you like me to hang up your sword?” She asks, holding out forest-green wings. “It looks heavy.” </p><p>Before he can even fully think about it, Link is shaking his head. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They gather in the room adjacent to the kitchen to eat, all five of Kass’s daughters sitting on the hardwood around a wide table low to the floor, along with the three adults. Kass had offered Link one of the mis-matched seats in his living room to sit in, but three of his daughters had grabbed the fluff around Link’s boots and pulled him to the floor before Link could do much about it. Though he wouldn’t want to be the only one in a seat, anyway. </p><p>“Are you really here to tame Medoh?” Cree, the blue one, asks him.</p><p>Mouth full of steamed carrots, Link nods. </p><p>Notts, the pink one, smacks a small feathered fist against the table. “How’re you gonna do <em>that</em>? You can’t fly with those–” she flaps her wings, “–those things.” </p><p>“They’re still called ‘arms,’ Notts, even without feathers,” Amali says from the other end of the table. </p><p>“Is Teba going to take you up?” Kass asks.</p><p>Link nods.</p><p>“Teba! That old jerk?” <br/>
<br/>
“Kheel, watch your beak.” </p><p>“<em>Meril</em> calls him that–” </p><p>“Meril isn’t my daughter. You, however, are. And no hatchling of mine will use words like that, especially when they're unwarranted. <em>Teba</em> has been fighting off Medoh for years, Kheel. He keeps us safe. Be grateful.” The purple Rito pouts, but Amali merely gives her a flat stare. Looking over at Link again she asks, “Link, would your friend want anything? He’s welcome to join us, of course. But is there anything I can bring him?” </p><p>He isn’t sure if Ghirahim even eats. He’s never seen him do it. But he does remember asking why the sword left Ganon and being told ‘good food and wine’ were part of the reason. Still, he has no way to ask right now. If the demon wants to eat he’ll have to get over himself and come inside. </p><p>Smiling politely, Link shakes his head.</p><p>“If you’re sure…”</p><p>“So,” Kheel starts, clearly the most confident of the bunch, “When you get up there, what’re you gonna <em>do</em>? You can’t fly – so what, you’re gonna crawl around outside of it and– what?” </p><p>“Kheel...” </p><p>“I’m just asking! It’s an important question,” she says, nodding her head with a finality too serious for a kid. </p><p>As one of the five Champions from a hundred years ago, Link knows he can get inside Medoh. Kass thinks he’s a descendant, just like Kaneli does, but it doesn’t really make a difference.</p><p>Face twisting up in concentration, Link digs the sheikah slate off of his hip. It’s a bit hard while sitting cross legged on the floor, but he wriggles it free eventually. </p><p>He holds it out towards Kheel.</p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p>“That,” Kass starts, “is the slate of legend. It holds great power. It can stop time, freeze the most perilous of waters, warp metal, take still images of life, and–” </p><p>“‘Still images of life’?”</p><p>“Like an instant painting,” Kass explains. “A picture, I think, is the right term.” </p><p>“What!”</p><p>“Link, Link, do you have any on there? Can you show us?” A quelling look from her mother has Kotts adding, “Please!” </p><p>Link touches the flat glass screen until he opens the camera, going to the very first picture he’d taken with the slate. It was from the edge of Hyrule Ridge, looking out at the never-ending landscape around him.</p><p>All five of Kass’s daughters flock him in a rush of talons and feathers. Two climb up his back, popping up under his arms around his sides, and one crawls straight into his lap. </p><p>“Girls!” Amali calls, her tone both weary and scolding. “You can’t go crawling all over our guest. You have to <em>ask</em>.” </p><p>The eldest, Notts, who is on his left shoulder, peers at Link shyly. “Is it okay?” </p><p>He nods.</p><p>“He says it’s okay!” Cree, who is tucked under his right arm, yells back at her mother. </p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Six pairs of eyes, five Rito and one Hylian, focus in on the sheikah slate in Link’s lap, held out far enough for everyone to see.</p><p>He starts swiping through photos. After Hyrule Ridge he’d crossed the field (remembers for a moment the guardian, but wipes the thought away). The next photo is of the castle, warped with calamity; a smattering of wildflowers; gems he had found; a meal he’d cooked weeks ago that he’d been proud of; the first glowing guardian sword he’d gotten from a shrine; the red lava of Death Mountain; Yunobo, the Goron who’d helped him with Vah Rudania; the beast itself; a single golden rose; and– </p><p>Link stops.</p><p>“Who’s that?”<br/>
<br/>
Zelda. It was a picture that had been on the slate since he woke up.</p><p>He sets a hand over his heart, hoping that will explain enough. </p><p>“Oooh,” Cree coos near his ear, “She’s <em>special</em>.” </p><p>Link nods. He wishes he could remember more about her, but all he has are a few memories and vague impressions: the sound of her voice, the colour of her eyes, and the way her hair smells. Like wildflowers. Always. </p><p>“You don’t have any of the–” from the nook under his left arm, Kheel waves her hand in a flourish, almost as dramatic as the original, “The diamond guy.” </p><p>Ghirahim would never let him, Link is sure. He should’ve taken one of the sword stabbed into that black obsidian. Then at least he’d have something. </p><p>“Where is he? Is he shy? Genli’s shy too.” </p><p>From his lap Genli nods. </p><p>“Can we– can we <em>try</em> it?” </p><p>“Cree, that is an ancient device and <em>very</em> important– oh.” </p><p>Link hands the slate to the Notts, the oldest, and nods. </p><p>For all his fighting, climbing, and various skills required for his quest, Link has discovered he's not exactly…. Elegant. At least not with the slate. The shape and size makes it awkward to carry with one hand – he’s dropped it from more than one cliffside. One time he’d pulled it out while gliding and watched it fall down somewhere deep inside an unknown forest. It had taken him all night to find it again. </p><p>If <em>he</em> can’t break this thing, five Rito kids don’t stand a chance. </p><p>He shows Notts how to take and save pictures, and then the five of them are gone, knocking Link a little sideways with the force of their takeoff from his body. </p><p>They start with pictures of each other, then run over to their parents, then to Link, chirping and screeching with laughter, their tiny talons padding across old hardwood. </p><p>Link watches Kass and Amali smile and then break into laughter of their own as their kids tumble, flap, and hop all over the living room. </p><p>He had a father, he thinks, but somehow Link knows he’d never had anything like this. </p><p>While he’s silently watching, he feels the warmth of a spirit returning to the sword. Even through the thick layer of his snowquill clothes Link can feel it.  </p><p>
  <em>I heard screaming and hoped you’d decided to slaughter this flock of birds. How disappointing.</em>
</p><p>He sighs through his nose, smiling wryly. Sitting on the floor, he presses his back against the sofa behind him. Warm steel pushes into his coat.</p><p>
  <em>Attempting to suffocate a sword? You truly lack all sense.</em>
</p><p>That wasn’t the reason he’d done it, but Link smirks and pushes back into the sofa harder.</p><p>
  <em>You would do well to learn some manners, you insolent Hylian.</em>
</p><p>‘Why don’t you come out and teach me?’ he wants to say. Link bites at his bottom lip, wondering at his racing heart. Can Ghirahim feel it? He leans away from the chair behind him. </p><p>“Alright girls, that’s enough,” Amali says. “Give Link back his slate before you break something.” </p><p>It’s set in his hands, and he swipes through the snapshots they’d taken: a lot of funny close ups of beaks and eyes, Cree falling down the back of a chair, Kass grinning, Amali wide-eyed and slightly out of focus, and Link looking blankly directly into the lens. </p><p>
  <em>You let a bunch of children play with your goddess’s trinket?</em>
</p><p>Link shrugs.</p><p>“Link,” Genli, the apparent shy one, stops in front of him, looking up. Kass and Amali’s daughters barely come to his knees so even while sitting on the floor they’re still a lot shorter. “Can we…” she looks back at her sisters, who all encourage her with various hand gestures, winks, and whispers of ‘ask him, ask him!’ She turns back around to look up at Link, but she looks behind him a second later, her voice so quiet he has to lean in a little to hear her. “Can we see your sword?” </p><p>He starts to shake his head, his heart sinking at having to tell them ‘no.’ There’s no way Ghirahim, with all his pride and disdain, would like it at all. </p><p><em>YES!</em> A sudden, overly-passionate voice rings in his head.<em> Allow them to marvel at my form! These unfortunate sheltered birds in their short lives have yet to see one so magnificent as myself! </em></p><p>Blinking a few times, Link doesn't move.</p><p>“Link?”</p><p>
  <em>What are you waiting for? Do not deny them what is doubtless their first glimpse of true power.</em>
</p><p>Lips opening to silence, he reaches back and unlatches the sword with both hands. Link lays it across the knees of his crossed legs. </p><p>The red gem shines and Genli, still standing right in front of him, gasps. </p><p>“You are wise to be impressed.” </p><p>Link jumps as that sonorous voice slips through the air instead of through his head. Looking to his left, he sees Ghirahim on a daybed pressed up against a far wall, tucked under a small window. He’s lounged across it on his back. His legs are crossed at their knees, upper body propped up with a pile of pillows Link is sure weren’t there a second ago. </p><p>Five small heads whip around to gawk at him. </p><p>Ghirahim waves a white hand, diamonds trailing the action. “The sword before you, lying across the lap of one hardly befitting its mastery,” Link rolls his eyes, “is the most extraordinary blade you shall ever lay your infantile eyes on. It has felled more beasts than any of you will see in your lowly mortal lifetimes. It has brought entire nations to their knees!” </p><p>There is a resounding ‘oooooOOoo’ from the five Rito kids. Looking over at Kass and Amali, expecting to find their faces painted with unease, Link is surprised to find them smiling, listening along with their daughters. </p><p>Grin slicing suddenly as if slashed across his face by a  knife, Ghirahim waves a hand through the air again. Diamonds scatter down over five little bird heads like snow. Screeches of laughter erupt from Kass’s daughters. </p><p>“Now,” the demon says, “Do you suppose you can lift my blade, tiny feathered warriors? Are you <em>worthy</em> of such <em>raw, unshackled power</em>?” </p><p>“YES!” Cree shouts, flapping her wings once and lifting up into the air for a second before landing back down with a clack on her talons. </p><p>Beside her, Notts grips her feathered hands into fists. “Time to bring nations to their knees!!” <br/>
<br/>
All five of Kass’s daughters run towards Link, ten feathered hands reaching for the sword. Shrieking with laughter and calls to arms, the girls heft the demon sword off Link's knees, pulling it away from him and holding it above their heads. </p><p>Staring dumbly, the blond has no idea what to think, what to make of the surreal scene in front of him. </p><p>“Excellent! Now lead me to a great beast to slay! A demon sword is naught without blood to shed.” </p><p>The flock of five Rito, imagining themselves as travel-hardened soldiers at their prime, lock ten eyes onto Link. He widens his own for affect and rises to his feet, hands up at the ready. </p><p>“Is this the beast you have chosen for us to slay?” Ghirahim says, waving a hand languidly from the daybed. </p><p>Five varying calls of ‘Yes!’ and woops of excitement answer his question. </p><p>“Very well, small ones.” Link chances a glance at the demon. He’s smirking. There’s something dark about it. Not a sinister sort of darkness – a thoughtful one. Still, he continues. “Feet apart, heads up, hands steady – remember well what blade you hold – remember your breathing – and charge!” </p><p>The gentle hands holding the sharp edges of the sword should be cut. Link has felt those edges, he knows how thin and sleek the points they come to are. But not a single feather falls out of place. The troop of Rito race towards him, some tripping on too-short legs and others grinning and all of them spilling with shrieks of joy, over-excitement fueled by the passion in the demon’s voice. </p><p>When they reach him, Link pretends to grip at a wound on his chest and falls back to the sofa behind him in a heap, closing his eyes. He lets one of his arms flop over the headrest and the other over his lower stomach. One foot sticks up over the opposite arm rest. He stays perfectly still. </p><p>He hears Kass laughing heartily, and Amali softly. </p><p>Everyone else in Rito Village had judged Ghirahim at first glance, but Kass and his family don’t seem to mind him at all. They even seem to <em>like</em> him, despite all of his general weirdness. Maybe because Kass has traveled so much. He’s probably seen a lot of weird things. Link knows <em>he</em> has, and he’s only been awake a little over a month.</p><p>Or maybe it isn’t that complicated.</p><p>Maybe some people are just accepting, even of what they don’t understand.</p><p>“We have done it! The beast has fallen!” Ghirahim cackles, a grim and menacingly unhinged sound. </p><p>All five of Kass’s daughters do their best to copy the sinister noise, small chips slipping out between tiny, dark laughter. </p><p>“Link?” Genli, the shy one, says. Her feathered hands are clasped anxiously together. She’s the second youngest daughter, Link is pretty sure. “Is he…” </p><p>“It’s okay, Gen. It’s fake.” </p><p>“Like when Papa pretends to be a dragon.” </p><p>“Link’s okay. He’s gonna tame Medoh, remember? With this gigantic black sword!” </p><p> Link cracks one eye open, and smiles at the green Rito. Genli grins shyly back. </p><p>“Now claim your prize,” Ghirahim says from the daybed, holding his hand up only to curl his fingers into his chest. Two of Kass's daughters copy the action – Cree and Notts – and Link breathes out a laugh that jolts his insides. “I can tell you for a <em>fact</em> he carries gemstones on his person. These are all but wasted on a hideous Hylian like him.”</p><p>Link gives the demon a look, but before he can be sure if Ghirahim’s seen it or not, two pairs of taloned claws land on his chest. Luckily it's Cree and Kotts, two of the youngest, but he still grunts as the wind’s knocked out of him. </p><p>“Claim them for yourselves, young warriors! The spoils of battle are your right.” </p><p>They shriek with bright laughter and chirps as their feathered hands reach for his pockets. Link tries very hard not to laugh, and sends a wry look at the demon from his place on the sofa. </p><p>“Okay, girls,” Amali says, saving Link from the feathered onslaught. “That’s enough. I told you already, don’t climb on our guests.” </p><p>“But–”</p><p>“We have to claim–”</p><p>“–are <em>gemstones</em>, and–”</p><p>“The diamond guy said–”</p><p>Kass shakes his head, speaking next. “It’s late, my little birds. And these two have a big day tomorrow. Come on, I will put you to nest tonight.” </p><p>“Can’t we sleep with you?” </p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“Because we want to sit up with our guests for awhile.”</p><p>A chorus of whines sounds out. </p><p>“Stop that,” Kass says, shaking his head. “Return Link his sword and come with me.” </p><p>Link, sitting up on the sofa now, catches the hilt of the sword with two hands as it’s given back to him. It comes with five long sighs and five frowning faces to match. </p><p>Still a bit stunned, he watches all of Kass’s daughters climb onto their father's back. Kass flaps his large wings, blowing wind through Link’s hair which brings him back, for a moment, to that landing.  </p><p>The blue Rito disappears into the upper network of their home, putting each of his daughters to bed in separate roosts. Although the ceiling is open, each of them has a private space; able to hear each other, able to see the sky, but still able to rest. </p><p>“Would your friend like some wine?” Amali asks him in a whisper, leaning down to where Link is sitting up on the sofa. The sword is still in his lap, gripped in his hands. “I don’t mean it in a bad way – but he seems like the type.” </p><p>Slipping Ghirahim back into place, that click of magic loud in this small living room, Link nods with a smile. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Ghirahim is deliberating the benefits of returning to his blade when a glass of something pleasantly red is held before his eyes. Green feathers offer him the drink, and the female Rito regards him politely as she speaks.</p><p>“Link said you might want this.”</p><p>He has never been a guest in another person’s home, not in the mortal sense, not that he recalls. He had promised to behave himself, hadn't he? And any who offer him wine surely deserve his more… mannerly disposition.</p><p>He waves a hand, accepting the glass through his diamonds. He does not thank her, but he lets himself smile, a display of all his sharpened fangs.</p><p>This Rito woman, Amali he believes she is called, does not flinch at the sight of him. Nor does her partner, or their plentiful offspring. Are they unable to sense the malignant magic that had bound him  to his blade? Impa certainly could; she knew precisely what he was when she’d held him. That Elder seemed more concerned with what he was <em>not</em> – the master sword – than with what he was, yet still demanded Ghirahim show himself to his people.</p><p>But <em>these</em> birds… They do not mind his foreigne appearance, demoniacal as it is, nor – if they <em>are</em> able to feel it – the vague, dark miasma of energy radiating from his blade.</p><p>Well. What concern is it to him? Ghirahim has wine and a comfortable place to lie down. </p><p>“Thank you,” Amlia says, sitting on one of the chairs placed at random around the room, “For entertaining my children, I mean.”</p><p>From the sofa opposite of her, Link is smiling.</p><p>Ghirahim brings the glass to his lips, looking out the window above him, his white hair falling away from his face but offering no glean to his affected ear. The wine is dry, aged well, and seeps into his veins like some sort of sweet infection. He closes his eyes.</p><p>It has been three thousand years since he last indulged in anything alcoholic, in anything at <em>all</em> – and he has been awake for a mere fortnight. It is only natural to feel it so vividly.</p><p>“Are you two really going to tame Medoh tomorrow?”</p><p>The demon does not open his eyes nor turn his head to look, yet he can imagine the Hylian’s expression falling serious, all that light turning to the burn of embers as he’s reminded of his task. In his mind’s eye he sees that homely green cap, curving around darker blond hair and falling down his neck.  </p><p>The demon scowls into his drink until the image dissolves away. </p><p>“I must apologize for the way I’m sure the Rito have treated you,” Amali is saying, now with her husband sat beside her. “Both of you,” she adds, perhaps looking at Ghirahim but the demon continues to stare at his wine. He swirls it for a moment before taking another long drink. </p><p>Not seeming to mind his disinterest, the Rito continues, “Our people have been haunted by Medoh their entire lives. The Elder is the only one who remembers a time before Rito was under the thrall of that beast. It has killed many warriors, and there are plenty of children who have watched their parents fall from the sky to their deaths.” </p><p>Ghirahim has witnessed and been the cause of such mortal terror. With Demise at his hilt he had slaughtered thousands, if not tens of thousands. What have these villagers to complain about? One single winged beast? When Demise had desired power, he’d unleashed the entire <em>underworld</em> upon an ancient surface. </p><p>“Our people have no more hope, no more love, no more trust to give,” the Rito continues, her words imploring and passionate. “Yet I please ask that you do not hate them for their fear.” </p><p>The Hylian is shaking his head, though Ghirahim still neglects to fully regard him. Instead he allows himself to lounge further down the daybed, warm yet ineffective wine occupying his senses. Wholly unable to withstand any longer the inanities of civil conversation, he stops listening entirely. There is the waning moon to stare at, a sight he has not grown used to quite yet. </p><p>At some point, the large blue Rito must have left and returned, but Ghirahim could not say when; he only hears the faint notes of an infernal accordion beginning to fill the room. Link, sitting on the edge of the worn wooden sofa, makes that grating noise of delight for the third time that day. </p><p>The song that bites at Ghirahim’s ears is not familiar, but the lyrics may as well have been torn from his own memories. It is not difficult to discern who the characters are, who the fated knight and princess are, what the events may have been, and he has heard Link mention that shrine once before. </p><p>Sometime during Ghirahim’s millennial slumber, the Hylian Hero had fought and died. </p><p>Scorning the white moon, he curls his fingers around the glass he’d been given. The music is wearing on his nerves.  </p><p>Eventually the melody dies, and after further inane chatter, the two Rito bid them a good night. </p><p>“This room is all we can offer you for the evening,” the large blue bird says. “Your friend looks comfortable already on our daybed. Will you be fine on that sofa, Link?” </p><p>Another nod, likely. Ghirahim finishes his wine. It’s a shame, truly, that it takes so much for it to have an effect on him. The idea of losing himself to inebriation has never been more appealing; these birds and their squabbling, all their <em>singing</em>, have left a bad taste in his mouth. </p><p>“Alright. We’re just up there, if you need anything.” The large blue Rito stands, and then his green partner follows. “I’ll be awake in the morning to bid you farewell and good luck. Sleep well, both of you.” </p><p>Ghirahim is sure the hero gives them one of his more irritating smiles. </p><p>With a great flap of wings and a whirling updraft of wind, they are left alone. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Overhanging night with cracks of moonlight cover half of the demon’s face in shadow, the other half probably lit up but Link can’t see what’s turned towards the wall.</p><p>He’s obviously upset. ‘Irritated’ is probably a better word for someone like him. But all Link can do is smile smally to himself, warmth leaking through his heart.</p><p>He could never call Ghirahim’s behaviour appropriate. The demon doesn’t know these Rito but he’d lied down on their daybed, boots still on his feet, and made himself completely at home. Whatever he’d done in the past, it obviously didn’t involve anything mundane like visiting another person’s house for the first time. </p><p>But he promised to not make this harder than it already was, and he hadn’t, not in any real way, and Link doesn’t get the impression that Ghirahim listens to other people very well (at all), and just at the back of his mind he remembers white fingers shoving a hair tie into his palm while he’d been lost in memories of pine and dark grey wings, and… </p><p>“<em>Boy</em>.” The tone is dark and cutting though the insult itself is becoming too familiar to hold any weight. Link had already been looking at him, but turns slightly on the sofa so he won’t have to crane his neck. “I grow weary of your silent staring.” One gloved hand waves languidly, showing his disdain in a sweeping arc. “If you have some doubtless vacuous words to impart, then gift them to me.” </p><p>He opens his mouth, gripping at the worn feathered cushions under him, but nothing comes out. There are so many things he wants to say. Link has a bottomless pit full of questions. Unfortunately, that bottomless pit is also what separates his brain from his tongue when things get like this. </p><p>Usually his silence is mistaken for indifference. Sometimes his face won’t work right either, and he just looks blank. </p><p>With all that pride he knows Ghirahim has, Link is sure it’ll just make him angry. He’ll take the silence as a taunt, as if Link were making fun of him. He shakes his head, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to shock his body and brain out of whatever locked-up state this is. </p><p>“What are you <em>doing</em>, you useless Hylian?”</p><p>Link freezes. He goes as still as a cliffside, unmoving under bending moonlight. </p><p>There are fingers in his hair.</p><p>If he’s a cliff and the demon of his sword is the moon, then the void between them is unimaginably huge. It’s a thought that creeps up on him from nowhere. It’s a thought he can’t get rid of. </p><p>Link removes his hands from his face, and he looks up. He stares at Ghirahim, willing his mouth to smile but it doesn’t listen. The most he manages is blinking eyes. He hadn’t expected the demon to come over. </p><p>As if they were never there, fingertips leave his fringe. </p><p>“What has <em>happened</em> to you?” Ghirahim asks, and although his voice is woven with typical dark fury, he does not sound upset with Link. He doesn’t sound like he’s even talking to Link at all. But he has to be. Who else is there? </p><p>He shrugs. It’s all he can manage. Maybe it was the resurrection, maybe all of his lost memories, or maybe Link had always been like this. </p><p>“Stand up.”</p><p>Obediently, he rises to his feet, the call of that sonorous voice filling his head like smoke. </p><p>“What have I done to deserve such an indifferent expression?” Ghirahim asks, speaking down the length of his prominent nose. “Have I not been every part a loyal and effective sword?” </p><p>Link nods.</p><p>Slowly, so slow they drag on like long winter nights, white fingers reach out towards him. Link holds his breath. </p><p>But that hand stops. The demon is frowning. The hand falls gently back down to his side. Link watches it the whole way. </p><p>It’s always Ghirahim reaching out for him, unless they’re fighting monsters, and even though Link isn’t sure about a lot of things, he knows he doesn’t want that to stop. So going slowly himself, remembering the few moments when he’d first seen Ghirahim standing proudly in broad daylight, he reaches up towards a grey face. </p><p>
  <em>I am here, you foolish hero.</em>
</p><p>Why had he said it like he thought Link was waiting for him? </p><p>“Your fingers are freezing,” Ghirahim says, his tone just as cold. </p><p>Link slips the very tips of the rough pads of his fingers across high cheekbones. Barely touches him at all. </p><p>“If you are going to do this, boy, then <em>do</em> it.” A hand grips his wrist and then Link’s palm is flattened against impossibly smooth skin. His lungs squeeze out air like a cloth being wrung dry. It hurts, but in a sweet sort of way, the same sort of way a mouth full of raw sugar hurts. “I will suffer no partiality from you.” </p><p>Hand pressed flat against marble-like skin, warm and unnatural, dark eyes glowering at him like he’s the most annoying thing Ghirahim has ever seen— </p><p>Fingers feeling angels his heart swears it knows just as well as his hilt—</p><p>Link’s mouth breaks into a shattering smile, wobbling and broken and unable to hold with any kind of integrity; he’s sure it looks weird. It feels awkward on his lips. He tries to turn his head away, but a thumb and forefinger grab his chin, turning him back around, tilting his face up. </p><p>“None of that,” Ghirahim says lowly, speaking under his breath. </p><p>Swallowing, Link drops his own hand away from that grey face. It would be too much, somehow, to keep feeling it. </p><p>The fingers at his chin release him.</p><p>But Link reaches out for his wrist, and he puts that hand definitively on his throat. His face flares red with the sudden action. His eyes flare wide right along with it. He hadn’t meant to – had he meant to? – but he doesn’t want to be free from their warmth, their strange wholeness, like marble covering unnatural flesh. </p><p>Sharp teeth slice across an angular face, black eyes sparking with a heat Link has felt in his hands just as brightly. “I suppose…” Ghirahim starts, a thumb gliding across his throat. Fingers shift and soon they're dragging down his neck, the pressure strong as they stroke along the tendon that connects to his clavicle. “I still need to repay you for that little <em>stunt</em> you pulled in the doorway.” </p><p>Link didn’t know he could feel like this, a fearless sort of fear, nervous anticipation at having no idea what the demon holding him might do next. </p><p>“You have gotten away with far too much.” His tone is foreboding but his touch – now just above Link’s chest, ghosting over hard bone under his coat – his touch is so soft, so careful, almost unsure; just like it had been when they’d been alone in that alcove. “I have not let anyone treat me as you do, hero.” </p><p>Ghirahim’s fingers push in harder suddenly, indenting his skin and sliding up the center of his throat. Link gasps, the line drawn up his neck pulling the sound out of him. </p><p>He’s given a fierce grin. Ghirahim’s teeth are fully fanged, saved for the front four on the top and bottom row. They’re all thick, seeming to sit heavy in his mouth, but there’s an elegance to them Link couldn’t explain if he tried. They’re delicate but strong, just like the rest of him.  </p><p>“Your mouth is hanging open yet again.” Fingers leave his throat and come close to his bottom lip. Link watches a grey face, barely breathing and wondering if he’s losing his mind, if this sweetness is actually insanity, if those sharp teeth should be a <em>warning</em> instead of a call— “You always were unreasonable, Skychild.” The demon’s eyes close, and he hasn’t touched Link’s mouth. “What shall I—” </p><p>Black eyes blare open to a hollow, baleful stare, but they look through Link rather than at him. </p><p>A furious flurry of diamonds thrashes out, like shards of serrated glass scraping through the air; his cheek is cut cleanly, sliced through as easily as if he were nothing but paper. </p><p>Blinking stars from his eyes, Link looks all around the room, left and right in a slow wag of his head. He takes half a step back, visions still blurry with diamonds.</p><p>But he’s alone. The room around him, empty of all the noise and light it had been full of hours ago, seems to loom. The great atriums stacked above him, the long skyward hallway of Kass’s house, feels like a tomb Link has found himself at the bottom of. </p><p>Warmth presses against his back. Ghirahim had returned to the sword. </p><p>He wants to say something. He wants to ask about a hundred different questions. That title – he knows he’s heard it before. </p><p>Link wants to pull the blade around to his face and ask him to come back out. No one has ever done whatever Ghirahim just had; unfolded him like rain to a flower, unlocked his brain when it refused to work with his face and his mouth. </p><p>Unable to say anything at all, he carries the sword to the daybed. Link lies the blade down. There’s a spot on the wall to hang weapons but he remembers the demon lounging here, feet up and hair falling aloft and a wine glass in his hands and... </p><p>Link lets his fingers drag across a black hilt as he walks away, his other hand rubbing the back of his neck. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Deep within the void of his blade, Ghirahim’s soul writhes, fury snapping at him from the very depths of his being. </p><p>The green tunic over plain chainmail; dark blue eyes that never saw him; the pout of pink lips, oh how he could <em>frown</em>; the— </p><p>Bodiless form twisting, he folds in on himself, trying to blot out these pointless, unyielding, <em>exasperating</em> memories. </p><p>He had forgotten, again. The Skyloft hero is <em>dead</em>. Ghirahim had watched him die. Any false hopes he’d had of a reunion had been thwarted weeks ago. His heart needs to learn it, but this emulation continues to draw memories from him like the sun pulls plants from the root. </p><p>No matter, he thinks to himself, slowly unfolding from his clutch of rage. There is no real reason to stay. Demon Lord that he is, Ghirahim can fend off Impa and her puny guards should they seek him out. If this Link is too weak to sever their futile partnership, if he is too sentimental to dispose of what they would both be better off without, then Ghirahim will do so. After they slay the beast tomorrow, he will take his leave. </p><p>All else notwithstanding, it will feel good to be rid of those noxious hands. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Normally he’s out as soon as he’s horizontal (sometimes even before that), but it takes Link a long while to fall asleep. Kass’s sofa is comfortable, especially compared to the hard ground of Hyrule’s wilds, but he knows it isn’t that anyway.</p><p>There’s Ghirahim – but Link shoves that thought down.</p><p>They’ve got a divine beast to tame tomorrow. That’s probably what’s keeping him awake. He’s already done so once, barely escaping with his life. Yunobo had warned him he really wasn't strong enough to be there – Daruk had said the same thing – but he couldn't just leave the Goron to suffer. And now here he can’t just leave the Rito either. He's not nearly as scared, this time, though. Actually he’s not afraid at all. </p><p>Everything else aside, Link is kind of… excited. </p><p>He falls asleep eventually, mind swimming with thoughts.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Hours later in the dead heart of night the demon lord stirs. The room around him is the grey-blues of moon and shadow. Everything is as still as the permanency found in death, a stillness he, however unfortunately, is abundantly familiar with. There is not a single noise in the room save for the small, weak puffs of pitiable mortal breathing.</p><p>The curling crawl of negated force relinquishes him from his blade, his form a white, ghastly pillar in this tiny, warm home. Metal imbued skin burning he wonders why he is <em>here</em>; standing in this trivial home, waiting for this <em>child</em> to attain his mortal rest; allowing himself to be toted around by one inferior to the hand that had forged him. </p><p>Why is he here, when he could slay this whelp and be held by the hands he is meant for. What delight that would bring his Master. What perfect joy, the singular triumph of Ghirahim subduing his enemy before returning to Demise; what commendation his completed task will bring. </p><p>Why is he here, when… <em>Why</em> <em>is he</em>…</p><p>Hours into the still dark of night, Ghirahim stands at the side of a wooden sofa, his eyes seeing but his mind blinded by fury. A sheen of lightless black metal appears in his hand. Peach skin, kissed ceaselessly by the sun, fills the whole of his vision as the demon slips his blade down to meet its singular purpose. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Vah Medoh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's... there's one-sided revalink. I don't ship it (??) I didn't MEAN for it to happen but <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7xai5u_tnk">this song</a> came on randomly while I was writing and I had to re-watch all of Revali's scenes and his English VA makes him gay as hell and then I read his diary and... this bird's got a crush, okay?? It's not my fault.</p><p>A big thank you to <a href="https://actually-an-alpaca.tumblr.com/">Alpaca</a> and <a href="https://queerahim.tumblr.com/">Alicia</a> who both listen to me complain/cry and get mad at me when I hate on my own writing. I'm a handful, I know, so thank you!!</p><p>And a big thank you to everyone reading and commenting. I am grateful anyone likes this at all ;v;</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The sharp, sheer ring of metal wakes him up.</p><p>Link had been sound asleep, effectively dead to the world as sleep always makes him, when black steel cuts through his mind in a dream. His eyes pop open. His breath shrieks through his nostrils. The front of his head throbs. Still half dreaming he looks up into black eyes and grey skin and pretty white hair, but doesn’t understand until—     </p><p>Grinding metal slices into his throat, only a miniscule fraction. It stings and Link hisses. Pain brings him fully awake.</p><p>Ghirahim is on top of him, sitting on his chest, knees falling down the sides of his ribs. The demon is suffocating his breath with one hand and holding his black slick saber to his throat.     </p><p>Panic draws his eyes open further, draws lines of fear down his face and his throat as Link goes taut everywhere all at once. A dream, a dream, this is a dream, just like the last time—       </p><p>Unrelenting steel slices in further, and Link pushes himself down into the feathered cushions, trying to get away. The hand over his mouth grips him. Black eyes lean further down. They’re not the black of nightful oceans or the black of all the dark spaces between stars – they’re not even black at all.     </p><p>Ghirahim’s eyes are empty, colourless to the point of nothingness.   </p><p>Outside, the wailing call of Vah Medoh quakes through the night time air, slipping in through every crack of wood.   </p><p>Arming himself with mounting determination, Link hardens his gaze up at the strange figure on top of him. He can’t just lie here. He won’t just wait to die. Zelda needs him, all of Hyrule needs him.     </p><p>With a frown he reaches up and grips the wrist of the hand over his mouth. It's surprisingly easy to move, and in a beat he can breathe.</p><p>“Ha…” Link tries to push his voice through, the sound gritted by slipping steel and its own lack of use. Somehow, Ghirahim's sword is resting against the side of the sofa. Questions race through his mind but there's no time to wonder, not with the steel of a black saber searching for his blood.     </p><p>“Ghirahim.”</p><p>Nothing. Not a twitch of unfathomable eyes, no crooked smile, no tongue, no teeth, no cackle.   </p><p>But his mouth opens, drops as if his jaw had been unhinged, and a voice like the crawling of claws against bone withers out.   </p><p>“Don’t you see? You’ve already lost… ”</p><p>“St…”</p><p>“<em>All this time apart and still… still… STILL… </em>”   </p><p>Link searches those empty eyes above him wildly, his own darting back and forth. He tries to find the demon who made him smile hours ago, who he carried the whole way here. But there’s nothing. He feels it seeping into his skull, the emptying force pushing past his eyes and inside his head.     </p><p>This… Is <em>this</em> him? If Link peeled everything away, is this what’s left?   </p><p>“<em>It was good to see you again, Skychild. Your attempts at distraction were adorable</em>.” The hollow drone of his voice brings Link back to that dream again. “<em>Yet our sordid union must retire here. Pity th—</em>”       </p><p>Squeezing his eyes shut, Link grabs the sword beside the sofa with searching fingers. He pulls hard and fast. After two weeks of carrying it around his muscles had grown, but it's still heavy. Heavier than any other sword he’s ever carried.     </p><p>He grunts as his arm strains with weight until his second hand meets the hilt, and then Link shoves the black blade between Ghirahim and himself. He bunts the flat side of the sword against the demon's face. Link kicks with his knees, Ghirahim snarling as he pitches backward. Once free, he rolls off of the couch and onto the wooden floor, landing in a crouch.     </p><p>The demon clutches his face, pushed back against the armrest of the sofa. His saber falls down on the feathered pillows.     </p><p>Squeezing the sword tight by its black hilt in stiff panic – wondering if Ghirahim can even be hurt by his own sword – Link lifts himself slowly out of his crouch. He narrows his eyes, breaths still shrieking in and out of his nose, each thudded heartbeat sending a dreadful thump against his head.     </p><p>Blood dribbles down his throat. It’s warm against the cool, motionless air of Kass’s home.   </p><p>Link grips the black hilt so tight his knuckles crackle.   </p><p>He feels it there, too. On his hands. An emptiness calling for him, trying to sift through him, trying to take everything from him.       </p><p><em>I do not know what this demon has told you, brave hero, but it is a lie. Your soul has been tainted with its malice</em>.   </p><p>Is that what all of it was? His lack of fear at facing Medoh, his easy acceptance of Ghirahim’s presence and forwardness. Is this sword corrupting his spirit? If Link lets it continue, will he still be able to save Zelda?     </p><p>
  <em>She will die without your aid.</em>
</p><p>He holds the hilt tighter, willing the other sensations he knows to come through. That starry void that means he’s resting, the rush of energy when they fight, that warm feeling of Ghirahim returning to his blade.     </p><p>Nothing. Nothing.</p><p>Desperate for anything, Link churns his hands around the hilt. That sifting emptiness surrounds him. Ghirahim is still crushed into one corner of the sofa with his head in his hands, fingers curling like withering weeds near his forehead, soundless save for haggard breathing.       </p><p>Link doesn’t want to hurt him. He definitely doesn't want to kill him. But if it’s Zelda on the line, if it’s all of Hyrule, he doesn’t think he’ll have a choice.     </p><p>“<em>Ghirahim</em>,” he says again, begging this time, his vision going dark; dark like the spaces between stars, starry like that void of feeling when the demon is deep inside his own sword resting and he sets him down for the night—     </p><p>Link sucks in a sharp breath of air.</p><p>“You continue to be alarmingly incomprehensible.” A sonorous voice, full of passionate contempt, floats towards his ears. Ghirahim’s hands drop from his face, legs shifting to sit upright on the wooden sofa. He’s holding his head with one hand, fingers set gently on his temple and brow as if it hurts. “Why must you regain your ability to speak at the most inconvenient of times?” Eyes close for a moment. The demon lets go of his head, fingers flexing dramatically. “Why…” he trails off, frowning at nothing.       </p><p>Link makes a sound of shocked relief, an opened mouth sigh that’s a bit too rough.   </p><p>Black eyes full of a familiar dark light gleam at him from the sofa. Link feels his whole body deflate, his knees weak for a moment. He takes a few steps towards the demon, hands still clutching a black hilt.     </p><p>He opens his mouth but no words come out. His palms are full of a familiar velvet darkness. Pulses of radiating energy beating through him, sometimes in time with his heart.       </p><p>“Have you actually managed to cut yourself?” Ghirahim snaps at him, glaring. “What are you attempting to accomplish, wielding me in the dead of night? <em>Inside</em> of all places.”     </p><p>Link blinks exactly six times. Does he not remember anything?</p><p>Was it another dream?</p><p>No. There’s blood spilling down his neck, soaking the collar of his snowquill coat.   </p><p>It was real.   </p><p>“I do not enjoy being woken up in such a manner. If you were not already bleeding for your own stupidity, I would cut you myself.”     </p><p>A chill runs up Link’s spine at his words. With shaking hands he hopes the demon can’t feel, he slips the sword onto his back. Link looks at Ghirahim. Standing while the demon sits on the sofa, Link is taller. He keeps his expression serious and points upward out the small window over the daybed.     </p><p>“You wish to go <em>now</em>?”   </p><p>He nods. Whatever just happened, whatever’s going on, he can’t keep Ghirahim here any longer. He won’t put Kass’s family at risk.     </p><p>He takes out five gems, one for each of the girls, and sets them on the low table they'd shared dinner on. It doesn't feel like enough of a thank you for the small respite Kass had given them, but right now it's all Link has to offer. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim bristles within his blade as the cool night air meets his steel. It is odd and furthermore irritating that the Hylian should inexplicably desire to face this beast in the dead of night. Yet he will not complain. Ghirahim has had enough of mortal platitudes and the thought of sinking his sword into any form of monster is far better than remaining on that daybed, lying still under motionless moonlight.     </p><p>The white ingratiating bird who had given Link the trial by archery yesterday – Teba, Ghirahim is fairly certain – is not at all pleased to be woken up before dawn.     </p><p>“What about your friend?” The bird asks as Link climbs onto his back.</p><p>Ghirahim, standing in the snowy mountain air, lifts one brow. He waves a hand, already bored of the unnecessary conversation. His form fades, diamonds flowing like river rapids into the darkness of his sword.       </p><p>“Huh,” Teba says, turning his beak towards the sky, “Neat trick.”   </p><p>This Rito, much like the flock who had opened their home up to them, also seems fairly at ease around the demon. Perhaps a life of combat had made him indifferent to the dark power that permeates him and his blade. Perhaps he cannot feel it. It is of no consequence to Ghirahim, regardless, how these mortals see him.</p><p>“But it might be easier to leave your... sword, friend, whichever – down here, until we're done with the first part,” the white bird says, craning his head back to look at the Hylian perched on his back, “The extra weight will only slow you down.”     </p><p>Link blinks as if he hadn't been listening. A cool, sharp wind hikes upwards, blowing from their feet to their heads. Loose strands of blond hair fall completely undone. Ghirahim clutches in anger within his blade. Why does he neglect to tie it securely? Why that glassy, distracted expression?     </p><p>Eventually Link shakes his head. Well, good. The demon had been rudely awoken and deserves nothing less than to be <em>carried</em>. </p><p>The bird drops Link from the sky. Bow clasped in gloved hands, he descends through open air just as the red sun bleeds over the far off dark horizon. If it is reminiscent of anything the demon forces the inane memories from his mind. No call of a homely red bird comes. No dropping through thick clouds. None of that, only this new Hyrule, dashed across with bleeding red rays of sun.     </p><p>The Hylian hits the beast's canons in effortless succession. He misses only one and Ghirahim is sure to remind him of his wanting archery skills. Otherwise he remains silent through the onslaught. Regarding the sky-high violence he wants nothing more than to be at the hands of this destruction, but resulting explosions would likely kill the hero at close range – though the demon nearly suggests that may be worth the casualty.</p><p>In jest, of course.     </p><p>The Hylian is no good to him dead.   </p><p><br/>
--</p><p>
  <em><br/>
What’s wrong Link? Too scared to talk?</em>
</p><p>Teba had asked that, laughing as they soared three hundred kilometers up in the air. </p><p>But Link isn't afraid. Not at all. Frigid wind climbing up the back of his neck, the sun a red sphere of light rising over Hyrule, and warm steel pressing against his back – his heart has never felt more full.     </p><p>Fighting has always been a back and forth of ‘stressful’ and ‘easy enough.’ Bokoblins and moblins were fine, one wizzrobe wasn't too bad, lizalfos scared him a little because they're so fast but he could stamp the fear down and do what he needed to. Usually. Guardians sent his head into a whirlwind and sent his feet running. Fighting Vah Rudania had given him his first panic attack, cowering in a hidden compartment while the blight had pelted fire against the stone wall he’d hidden behind. Too soon – he’d gone there too soon.     </p><p>With this sword in his hands, though... it was different. He had been afraid of the guardian they’d fought but by the end the fear felt balanced, and the ghastly whisper in his head had felt reassuring. Heavy black steel blocked out the laser; his muscles responded, some nerve-memory causing the action, and for the very first time he <em>hadn’t</em> felt like running.     </p><p>Last night he couldn't sleep because he'd been too excited. And now – lasered cannons blasting heat into his face, falling from the sky and lining up shots, the great call of a contaminated beast blaring through the air hard enough to shake him – he's not afraid, not even a little, not even in the way he should be. </p><p>Link feels a long smile creep across his mouth, distorted by his state of mind, still trapped behind the wall that separates his feelings from his ability to show them. But his heart races, and an airy laugh slips out from between his lips.     </p><p>
  <em>Enjoying yourself, are you?</em>
</p><p>A chill runs up his spine at the demon’s voice.   </p><p>Knocking an arrow as he drops from the sky, Link doesn't respond. He remembers cool black steel sliding into his throat. The weight on his chest had been a block of ice suffocating him into feather pillows. Ghirahim's voice had been different. Right now floating inside his head it's melodic, every part of every syllable pronounced and just-barely suppressed passion in each word while he waits idle on Link’s back.     </p><p>In Kass's home, though, it had been as empty as the canyon under him right now. It had been less of a sound and more of a feeling, like his soul being pulled from his insides, sifted and filtered through until he was as cold as the demon above him.     </p><p>Arrow loosed towards its target, Link chances a look behind him, bow lowering as he drops through the sky. From a distance he’s nothing but a single golden point marred by a ghastly black blade, both hurtling towards the world below.     </p><p>
  <em>I grow tired of being perched on your back like an ornament, beautiful as I am. Finish the job and get us on to that beast.    </em>
</p><p>If there’s something wrong, <em>really</em> wrong, with Ghirahim, he’ll have to deal with it later. There’s nothing he can do about it right now. Leaving the sword behind is out of the question – he’d get an earful, first of all, and secondly the idea of leaving Ghirahim lying around Rito Village is… unsettling, to say the least. Absently Link fingers at the fresh cut across his throat. It’s safer to keep the sword with him for now.     </p><p>He takes the last shot, aiming skyward as he plummets, wind raking up his back and arms and sending hair into his eyes, skewing his vision. Still the arrow connects. A fiery explosion bursts from the beast’s side. Cheering mutely Link tucks his bow and quiver away, pulling out his glider and riding the air back up into the high skyline.      </p><p>Teba flies over to tell him he’s injured, his leg clearly fractured, white feathers burnt black near his talon.   </p><p>“Good luck! It’s all you,” he calls before heading back down to the village.</p><p><em>Ha!</em> A shrill laugh floats inside his head. Link listens but keeps his eyes forward as he drifts down towards Vah Medoh’s back. <em>Luck is a fantasy coveted by the weak. What need have you for such trivialities with a sword such as myself on your back?</em></p><p>Link rolls his eyes with a wry huff. He lands on the main platform of Vah Medoh, grunting as his boots hit hard stone. He slips his glider away and sets his hands on his hips, looking around.     </p><p>All of Hyrule spans out under them, rivers connected like veinwork, forests of every colour, villages and far off places he hasn’t been to. He can see the castle, Death Mountain, and the pink-topped trees of the Lost Woods. Medoh’s massive sides obstruct his view in the other direction. Green moss grows all through the cracks and grooves of the beast’s stone body, reminding Link of the Temple of Time way out in Hyrule Field, some ancient forgotten feeling about the rock surrounding him.     </p><p>The entrance to the beast is a leering archway of mossy vines and sun-stained stone. There's a pedestal to his left, similar to the sheikah shrines, and around the looming side of Medoh he sees platforms leading up to the top of the beast. </p><p>A warm wind, different from the constant cool gusts rushing from the north, blows up his back, unfurling almost with intent along his neck and through his hair.     </p><p><em>Do you suppose</em>, the demon starts with a sneer in his voice, <em>if we stand here all day the beast will defeat itself out of sheer boredom? Move, you whelp!</em></p><p>Link doesn’t hear him. The blade at his back is warm, but the wind around him is warmer. It whispers with words he barely remembers. His chest feels tight with sudden longing. Pulling the slate out, he walks towards the pedestal in front of the entrance. Another slow slip of wind, too slow to be natural, brings the fresh spring scent of pine and evergreen. Link has the vague notion that it’s mocking him, somehow.       </p><p>The slate lights up as he sets it on the pedestal. Something clicks, not a door, not a physical door anyway, nothing he can see.   </p><p>‘Well now,’ comes a voice from the very heart of Medoh, ‘I’ve seen that face before…’   </p><p>Link’s eyes widen and he turns in a circle, searching for a single sight of blue-grey feathers.   </p><p>‘I had a feeling you’d show up eventually. But making me wait a hundred years is a bit... indulgent.’ On the final word another strike of warm wind flurries up his back, undoing his hair completely this time. It falls around his cheeks, his temples, and Link breathes out slowly, his head racing with vague remembrance.      </p><p>‘Oh and you’ve brought a friend to my deathbed. Delightful,’ he says like it isn’t delightful at all. ‘What’s his name?’       </p><p>Link reaches back for the sword, pulling it out with both hands. Revali must be able to feel the spirit there. He holds it and waits expectantly.     </p><p>But the demon doesn’t show himself, or even offer a reply. Link frowns at the blade.   </p><p>‘What has happened to your usual sword?’ Revali’s voice calls out, the source coming still from every direction at once. ‘This one's kind of gaudy, don’t you think?’       </p><p>Link knew the offended response would ring through his head before it did, but he squeezed his eyes shut anyway as Ghirahim practically shouted.       </p><p><em>GAUDY!</em> </p><p>The demon appears beside him in a thrash of glittering diamonds; he pops up so fast Link feels the displaced air next to him like a zap.     </p><p>“And I suppose you think <em>feathers</em> procure a flattering aesthetic?” </p><p>‘My feathers are the sleekest and smoothest of all the Rito,’ Revali says, and Link can picture the way his beak turns up even though he can’t see him. ‘Where did you manage to find this ghastly thing?’ He asks following a bright laugh. ‘Abandoned in a cesspit, I imagine.’</p><p>“<em>Link</em>,” the rare sound of his name has Link turning to look at Ghirahim, “tell this pitiful plumed parrot to show itself.” He watches as fangs gleam in the early morning light. “So that we may discover precisely how many ways there are to pluck a bird.”</p><p>Revali's disembodied laugh circles around them again. ‘You’re going to pluck me? How original. No one has ever threatened to <em>pluck</em> me before.’     </p><p>“I will do far worse than that, you–”</p><p>‘Oh pardon me, I wasn’t listening. What did your <em>hideous</em> sword say, Link?’     </p><p>Link watches with blinking eyes as Ghirahim's face contorts with flared anger. He opens his mouth – it’s only a matter of time before the demon loses his short temper – but is cut off before he can say anything.     </p><p>“Tell this perfunctory peacock it wouldn't know beauty and good taste if he were to lay them as an egg!” Red light grows at the demon’s fingers.     </p><p>‘Now, now,’ Revali says, the clear calmness of his tone finding delight in the torridness of another, ‘If either of us is a peacock it’s the one covered in gold and diamonds. How desperate for attention can you be?’       </p><p>Ghirahim’s gloved hands curl like spring grass drying in the smoke of a fire. “Not nearly so desperate as the one whose orations come from a squabbling <em>beak</em>. Do you truly wish to draw attention to that unpleasantly yellow thing?”       </p><p>Yellow? Can Ghirahim <em>see</em> him? Link looks back and forth, even up in the air, but doesn’t see anything.   </p><p>‘A weak insult, but such fancy words,’ Revali says, and still that voice comes from everywhere at once. Link looks at Ghirahim though and the demon has his baleful glare honed in on one spot. ‘‘Oration’? You definitely didn’t learn that from Link.’     </p><p>Link frowns.   </p><p>A vicious fanged smile turns his way and Ghirahim says, “He does lack a certain verbosity.”     </p><p>Link frowns again, this time at the demon.   </p><p>‘Or any humility,’ Revali says, his words sharp as his unseen beak, ‘He stands before my grave and hasn't offered a single apology for the state he left me in. Typical.’     </p><p>Guilt ties up Link's throat, knotting all the way down to his stomach. His frown fades as if taken by the wind.     </p><p>‘<em>I</em> would have felled Ganon in seconds with a single perfectly placed arrow, if only they'd let <em>me</em> face him. But no, they sent me to this beast. Wasted talent if there ever were any.’     </p><p>Ghirahim cackles with searing laughter, red light at his fingers pulsing, “Yes of course! One little measly <em>cockatrice</em> against the most powerful being in all existence.” He flicks a hand through his sheen of white hair; his fingers twitch at his side afterwards, anger silently boiling. “You should revel in this gravesite; if you <em> had </em>faced Ganon your fate would be far worse.”       </p><p>Link tries not to find more in those words than the demon likely meant.   </p><p>Revali huffs, the sound so familiar it tugs at his heart. ‘Link,’ the sound of his name tugs harder, ears straining to listen, ‘you do know this sword you hold is cursed? How can it possibly seal the darkness away when it seeps darkness like a sieve!’     </p><p>Link doesn't reply, save for vague griping of his hands holding nothing but air.   </p><p>“Far better than seeping faux disdain as a shield for unresolved mortal <em>affection</em>.”       </p><p>‘What are you squawking about?’   </p><p>“Your feelings leak through this mechanical beast as if you were <em>weeping</em>. Such a delicate little birdie.”       </p><p>There's a pause. Link can’t see Reavli, but he sees the triumphant smirk flash across a grey face.   </p><p>‘At least I <em>have</em> a heartbeat, demon.’   </p><p>“<em>You</em> are dead.”   </p><p>‘<em>You</em> might as well b–’ </p><p>“<em>Stop</em>,” Link hears himself say, the first word he’s spoken in nearly six hours. He looks up at Ghirahim and then over at Medoh, his head aching and eyes hard. If he had remembered more a few minutes ago, he would have known these two wouldn’t get along.     </p><p>Ghirahim gives him a look of cold contempt, but Revali sighs. The sound is a breeze across stone.     </p><p>‘I guess it’s no surprise,’ he says. ‘You always did have a thing for diamonds.’   </p><p>Link opens his mouth, questions beating at his brain; but only a soft choked noise comes out, this muted by the harsh wind all around them.     </p><p>‘Very well,’ Revali says with another longer sigh. ‘I can play nice, if I must. Circumstances as they are, any comrade of Link’s is a comrade of mine.’     </p><p>Ghrahim sneers. But the glow in his hand fades away. Link stares at the diamond pattern down his arms, the blue diamond in his ear, and the red one around his waist. </p><p>‘If you are both here to reclaim Medoh from Ganon’s wrest, then I welcome you with open wings,’ the spirit says, a gust of wind swirling across the front terrace with his voice. ‘You need the map first, then there are three terminals to unlock. But don’t expect any help from me. Consider it payback for making me wait.’     </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim follows the Hylian through the arched entryway of the goddess’s mechanical creature. Once inside its main body the demon scans the vast, convoluted room of its interior. The mechanical bowls of this colossal beast are a cluster of tangled puzzles: massive stone blocks on metallic sliders, oddly angled ramps, gated doorways, harrowingly large stone boulders… Simply gazing at it irritates Ghirahim beyond measure. It is displeasingly disorganized at best, and trivial at worst, as Hylia's tasks had always been.     </p><p>Link sets to work like a loyal little bee, buzzing to and fro from one tedious puzzle to the next. His singular concentration is of note, brow drawn down and mouth closed firmly; though diminished in his inability to focus on more than one thing at a time. He is continually distracted by the smallest details: carvings in the stones, strange lights in the ceilings, and sunlight glittering off water as cool dew hangs in the air.     </p><p>A cold wind flows in through a gaping window, wide to this new world. Ghirahim folds his cloak around him, fingering fabric the dark colour of sweet wine, and he watches rough hands slip their way along latticework of a gate. Barred from entry, some trick he must solve, some vacuous little <em>test</em>he participates in to please the insecurities of a vapid goddess.     </p><p>He has never understood her reasoning.   </p><p>Why make things harder on her hero? What was the purpose?   </p><p>Ghirahim – standing amidst the moss and stone of a malformed beast, standing among the wind and new sun of the day, standing with his lips pressed into a hard line – resolves to procure himself a perch. </p><p>There is a stone slab curved into a concave arc, opposite a gaping hole in one far wall. He sends himself into the crook of this slab in a cloud of diamonds. Lying on his back he cannot help but hear the faint grunts and groans of laborious effort. This most of all is indistinguishable, and the demon finds he cannot keep his eyes closed for risk of remembrance. Stone-faced he rolls his head to the side and watches the busy Hylian disassemble his goddess’s puzzles.       </p><p>Another breeze passes through. This one is warm and reeks of evergreen.   </p><p>Scrunching his nose, the demon says, “What do you want, dull little pigeon?”     </p><p>The opaque form of the spirit bound to this mechanical tomb appears on the ground next to him. </p><p>‘Oh not much… I have a question. It’s quite simple. I’m sure you can handle it.’   </p><p>The demon clenches his jaw, fangs poking against the inside of his mouth. Yet Ghirahim merely waits. He had let this bird affect him far too much already.     </p><p>‘Look, I'm only being curious – don't take offense –  but how did something like <em>you</em> end up in the hands of the chosen hero?’ He uses the title as disdainfully as Ghirahim himself.     </p><p>“I believe he mistook me for the master sword,” he replies, having no reason to keep the truth hidden. This spirit is trapped in this stone crypt. Ghirahim can feel the magic that binds him. Doling out information will have little effect on his plans.     </p><p>The bird laughs haughtily. ‘Of course he did. Why am I not surprised?’   </p><p>Hoping to be left alone, the demon doesn’t respond.   </p><p>Yet the bird squawks again.   </p><p>‘You aren't going to help him unlock my Medoh?’   </p><p>“You ask too many questions.”   </p><p>‘Now, now. Don't lose your temper,’ he says with a slow shake of an opaque feathered head, ‘I only want to know if you plan on hurting him.’     </p><p>Ghirahim sneered, “Do you suppose I would tell you if I did?”   </p><p>‘As it turns out…’ he begins with while a feathered hand turns palm-up, gesturing while he speaks, ‘Being a spirit has its advantages. I <em>would</em> know if you were lying. And unless I'm terribly mistaken, which I know I’m not, <em>I</em> am the only reason your demonic soul hasn’t burnt to char.’     </p><p>“Are you attempting to <em>threaten</em> me?” Ghirahim asks with a scoffing laugh.   </p><p>‘You are in my locked tomb, my resting place for the past one hundred years. I can do whatever I want.’   </p><p>“That includes ceaseless complaining, I gather.” </p><p>‘At least I'm not lazing about like a loaf.’   </p><p>“I will not give your goddess the satisfaction of my aid in her servile trials.”   </p><p>The pigeon seems pleased at this. Perhaps Ghirahim is not the only one sick to the core with Hylia's inexplicable testing. This bird had, afterall, paid a mortal’s ultimate price for her blunders.     </p><p>‘If I were to take back – and please know this is very hard for me, I never go back on my words – but if I take back calling you hideous, will you tell me why you choose to stay with him? I don’t mean to be insistent but <em>really</em>, I'm sure you've noticed. He trusts far too easily.’ A pause. A spark of annoyance in that haughty tone and then the bird adds, ‘You can’t blame me for asking. You are a <em>demon</em>, after all.’     </p><p>Ghirahim closes his eyes. It is no great thing to him. What the pigeon said is true enough: this spirit is granting him entry when the sheikah magic all through this beast, as it is in Hylia’s shrines, would otherwise seek to destroy him.     </p><p>“I have my own goals, yet they are not contrary to his. That is enough of a reason for me to do him no harm. No need to worry your fancy little feathers off.”     </p><p>‘Fancy? That sounds like a compliment.’   </p><p>“It was not.”   </p><p>‘Hmm… No, I'm sure it was.’   </p><p>Ghirahim growls from his chest. “Leave me you phantom pheasant, I am attempting to <em>relax</em>. The sight of you is making such a feat utterly impossible.”       </p><p>‘Oh? Distracted by my good looks, I see. Naturally you are. My plumes are the softest and sturdiest in all of Rito.’ Ghirahim doesn't reply, hoping again the little cockatrice will flap away on its own if ignored. Clearly he’s fond of attention so perhaps its lack will negate his lingering. ‘But I am not the only thing you’re distracted by. Amazing how spirits can read each other, isn’t it? You’ve got your feathers in quite a bunch there, demon.’       </p><p>Ghirahim continues to ignore him, watching now-bare hands mill about the side of some wall, searching for something. The Hylian retains his avidly focused stare. Normally he is endlessly distracted, but the moment he decides upon a singular goal or purpose this particular hyper-fixation takes over. The demon watches the strong line of his jaw; the joints of his fingers deftly flexing; his own sword set heavily over his shoulder.     </p><p>‘Personally I think you hang around for a different reason,’ the spirit continues, his tone brightly mocking in a way that forces Ghirahim to grind his teeth. The useless Hylian cuffs himself against a stone pillar, hissing through the windy air of this beast’s main chamber. He shakes the pain out of his hand and returns resolutely to his task. ‘Do you <em>always</em> watch him like this?’     </p><p>Ghirahim’s eyes strain at their corners, the quickest snap of shock that pulls taut the tendons of his neck.   </p><p>‘Oh dear… It seems I’ve struck a <em>nerve</em>.’   </p><p>A growl tears from him as if unleashed and the demon sits up in a frenzied rush, sending out a stream of black knives. They soar uselessly through an opaque blue form, swift and sleek and deadly, and sink into the far wall.     </p><p>Ghirahim heaves through a breath.   </p><p>The sound of knives stabbing into stone garners Link’s attention, who raises one brow from the punctured wall to the demon.</p><p>‘You’d better wipe that expression off your face before he notices. Then again, he hardly ever notices.’     </p><p>Haughty, bright laughter fills his ears. Ghirahim growls while his fingers twitch, seething at fading opaque feathers.     </p><p>He's beginning to develop a strong distaste for birds.   </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Hours go by. It must be hours, it certainly seems like it. Ghirahim had begun counting cracks in the crumbling stone to bide his time.     </p><p>Still lounging across the slab – mood less querulous yet teetering dangerously on bored – he watches with a heavy head as the hero flits by his line of sight.      </p><p>“You are taking far too long,” Ghirahim says, hair slipping across his face as he rolls his head sideways.     </p><p>Disappearing around a high wall, Link replies with a croaking voice, “You could help.”       </p><p>“I am no lap dog for your goddess to ask tricks of,” he retorts with a slow wave of his hand, watching his fingers dance delightfully through the air above him.     </p><p>The only response he’s given is a wry huff. The soft breath meets his ears through dust motes caught in sunlight and the never-ending stench of evergreen.     </p><p>Ghirahim sighs languidly, running a hand through his silky white hair. He longs for something to slaughter. The hero had told him there were likely to be monsters biding their time in this beast, yet there was nothing. Nothing save for Hylia’s vapid demands of her hero and a <em>deranged</em> cockatrice.     </p><p>Eventually, perspiring from substantial effort – movement of such large slabs of solid stone must wear on mortal muscles – the Hylian trots over towards Ghirahm’s perch. Soundless he unloads his items: glider, bow and quiver, and his heavy coat. He keeps only Ghirahim’s sword and that hand-held contraption. The hero refastens the belts across his now-bare chest and shoulder, making sure the sword is secure, and then returns to his busy work.     </p><p>Another hour goes by. Ghirahim entertains himself with watching the horizon through the gaping maw of a window across from his perch.     </p><p>‘Oh you got the map. We’re all saved now, surely.’   </p><p>That wretched bird’s squabbling voice echoes out everywhere; he fights a scowl from his face. He will not be so easily affected thrice.     </p><p>Link sets his hands on his hips, standing at the far end of the beast’s innards, looking wry as the bird squawks at him.     </p><p>‘Alright, I’ll give you one hint. Consider yourself lucky,’ he says with a playful tone that turns Ghirahim’s insides sour. ‘You’ll need to use the map to activate the terminals. Think you’re up for it?’</p><p>That wry look unfolds into a small grin, clearly accidental, absurdly bright. The phantasm haunting this machine – Link had said it was a prior companion of his. A <em>friend</em>, he recalls with a scowl.     </p><p>Uncaring, Ghirahim continues to lounge.   </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link climbs to the top of a high terminal, searching Medoh’s main chamber. Eyes that had been fully absorbed in their search widen as they spot their target, and a happy ‘ha!’ escapes his otherwise silent mouth.     </p><p>On the other end of a long metal bar suspended in the air there’s a pedestal. If he aims it right, he could jump, use magnesis to attach himself to the metal fan under the stone, and slide the whole way to the pedestal.     </p><p>He takes a slow breath, warm steel pressing against his bare back as his chest expands, and Link can’t say what comes over him. A month ago – not even – a <em>week</em> ago he wouldn't have tried something like this. The drop below is enough to seriously hurt him, maybe even kill him. What if he falls? He can’t save Zelda and all of Hyrule if he brains himself on the floor of this divine beast.     </p><p>He’ll make it. There’s no other way over there anyway so he <em>has</em> to.</p><p>Link narrows his vision at his intended target, slate ready at the tips of his fingers, and runs until he leaps.</p><p>The magnet catches the metal fan, and his vaulting weight sends the stone sliding across the bar. He grins, cheering wordlessly as he skids through the cool air of Medoh’s main chamber.     </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim watches with a deepening frown. The tactic Link has employed is not only haphazard and unreliable, but it is incorrect. He is <em>clearly</em> meant to use the wind raking through this chamber to propel the fans placed conveniently below. Had he not sussed it out, or did he not care to follow directions?       </p><p>There’s a widening of blue eyes as the fast-approaching wall before the hero comes closer – realization dawning – and then a hollow <em>bang</em> as the stone he is attached to meets the wall.     </p><p>Rough hands lose their grip, a surprised shout rings through the chamber, and Ghirahim watches Link tumble down a stone wall, arms and legs scraping against it. As he plummets down the twenty foot drop white fingers snap, attempting magic reflexively. Yet as had been the case thus far in the times he had sought to do so, nothing happens. His magic is stubbornly blocked.</p><p>The demon’s spells refuse to cooperate in the midst of the hero. They had since the moment he’d woken up.     </p><p>The whelp manages that glider of his, at least, yet Ghirahim is by no means pacified. The boy's fumbling fingers slip from his glider and he flattens himself on the stone floor regardless. The smack of his hard body is a muted thud that blooms through the wind-swept piney air.       </p><p>With a snap of white fingers the demon sends himself to the base of the chamber, directly to where the mindless hero had fallen. Immediately he is angry as said spell depicts a smarter solution to the prior problem of descent. Yet Ghirahim could not have done <em>that</em>, surely.     </p><p>Link is lying face down on hard stone. The demon glowers at the limp body near his white feet, some twisted expression on his own face he cannot find the purpose of, cannot decipher despite it being of his own make.     </p><p>The Hylain lifts his head, sitting up with sun-blond hair in his eyes. He blinks no less than ten times, obviously stunned in his perfect dizziness. Then he rubs the heels of his calloused hands into his forehead, as if trying to reset his mind after such a fall. Ridiculous. Ghirahim wants to <em>scream</em>.       </p><p>Yet the hero’s face falls serious, narrowed focus returning, and he stands. Practical hands find the flat stone wall and he is climbing back up the way he’d descended so gracelessly. Not a single glance is given to the demon before him, not a single care either.     </p><p>“You <em>absolute–”   </em></p><p>Blue eyes turn down, wide as if he thought himself alone.   </p><p>“You drain me entirely; your <em>profound</em> stupidity has worn me to the bone and it is not yet past noon!” Ghirahim, anger coursing like rolling thunder, curls his hands in the air as if snapping a supple peach throat. “You are meant to <em>use the wind</em> to drive the stone slabs,” he says, each word sliced by sharp fangs, “Not hurl yourself into the wall like a dim little moth!”       </p><p>Link opens his mouth and then he shuts it, the blank expression fueling a rage Ghirahim has not felt for millennia. </p><p>“Your goddess has doomed us all, choosing a brainless <em>fool</em> to save her world.”     </p><p>‘Ah, would you look at that?’ That innocuous bird’s voice grates at him. ‘Something we can agree on.’   </p><p>The Hylian looks mildly offended. He ought to look horrified at his own inadequacy. His arms and legs and shoulders and chest – all that sunned peach skin – lined now with red rashed scrapes. Inefficient magic shimmers at the end of white fingers, hindered by still unknown forces, though the demon can guess easily enough. Hylia had made it so. She controlled her hero as she saw fit, afterall.     </p><p>“<em>Go</em>,” the demon snaps, pointless words and sliding stone slabs and yawning boredom weighing on him, “Bring this nonsense to its conclusion, or I should entertain myself with riding you of your wasted vocal cords, one at a time.”     </p><p>For a moment some skip of fear sneaks in through the cracks of blue eyes, through the leveled expression and the sturdy jawline. For a moment Link looks as frightened as he ought to.     </p><p>Ghirahim, wanting to throttle him even if only for a moment, sends himself back to his perch.   </p><p>Where had that brush of brashness come from? Certainly Ghirahim prefers him to be <em>brave</em> yet this was baseless, careless, fanatical risk taking, and it served no purpose! What was he attempting to accomplish? Saving Demise the trouble and slaying himself before their inevitable battle?     </p><p>The boy had been afraid of that mechanical guardian and he had been timid in other bouts of combat, victorious or not. Yet now he throws himself through this chamber of trials like a mindless moth around a sea of fire! What had happened? What had changed him seemingly overnight?     </p><p>Ghirahim cannot let the idiot <em>die</em>. He owes a life debt and while he has preserved his life more than once by now it is <em>abundantly clear</em> that this scion has lost whatever sense he’d had and is keen on rushing into death’s arms at its earliest convenience.      </p><p>Irritatingly enough when the Hylian climbs back up the stone he sends himself across the room in the exact same manner. He gives Ghirahim a <em> look </em> and then he leaps, using some magic from the slab he carries around once again. This time he has the sense to release his hold from the sliding stone prior to its contact with the wall.     </p><p>The demon sneers at the distant image of his own sword on the hero's back. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
After a full day of puzzles, Link finally reaches the last terminal.</p><p>‘That’s all of them. I can't believe you managed it,’ Revali says after Link unlocks it with the slate. ‘Next is the main control unit. It’s on your map. Well?’ There’s a long pause, and even inside this room with nothing but a small door, Link feels warm wind soar up along his back. If he shivers he hopes the spirit doesn’t notice it. ‘Flap to it!’       </p><p>Link huffs softly, unable to help the sound; he’d forgotten about the puns.   </p><p>He doesn’t remember everything. He remembers feelings, and the rhythm of their one-sided conversations, and he remembers being looked at a lot.</p><p>The demon is still lying out like some sort of sun-soaking cat when Link gets back to the main chamber. A hand dances up into the air, caught in a ray of sunlight along with specks of dust, before playing slowly through white hair. Ghirahim's eyes are closed. He seems more relaxed, though his low tone might be a boiling type of anger.     </p><p>“Oh, are you finally done?” He asks while Link stands on the level below him with squared shoulders. “I had dared to hope you had perished.”     </p><p>He holds the blade out, waiting. Ghirahim had explained to him that while he can fight alongside it, the sword is stronger with his spirit inside, and not only because he can see farther. And Link knows from fighting Ganon’s Fireblight they’ll need all the strength they can get.     </p><p>“You are incredibly selfish, asking for my assistance after the <em>hours</em> of torment you have forced me to suffer through.”   </p><p>Link rolls his eyes. He wants to call the demon overdramatic – would sign it if Ghirahim could understand it. Unable to do either, he keeps the sword held out and keeps waiting.     </p><p>The slip of magic from the demon returning to the hilt gripped in his palms is the same as always, burning and dark. But it brings memories of that strange dream and of last night. After hours of solving puzzles Link nearly forgot.     </p><p>Still, it'll have to wait. Revali's been trapped under the oppressive hand of Ganon's malice for a hundred years. There are piles of it everywhere. Link needs to save his friend, or rival, or whatever Revali was, and free Medoh. That's what he came here for.     </p><p><em>Shall I take this to mean we are finally to fight some beast?</em> Ghirahim hisses through his head. </p><p>He nods, setting the sword on his back with the click of a magic latch.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The Hylian re-secures all of his items to his person, including his coat, tightening the thick belts around his shoulder and chest over warm fabric. The coat he'd purchased is foolish with its feather-like back hem; Ghirahim spends little time looking at it, finding its pattern offensive in its needlessness. Once dressed and fully geared, Link runs and leaps into a shaft and a vortex of wind carries them to the top of this mechanical monster.     </p><p>It eases Ghirahim's nerves to be outside of Hylia’s beast, both because it is of her design and because it is rife with whispers of his Master’s energy. The whole of Hyrule is as such – a mix of the goddess and Demise, fighting for purchase over the land and its people, but it is more potent in some places than others. Both forces leave him troubled for differing reasons, loath as he is to admit they have any effect on him at all. His Master's, though, seems to be the stronger of the two here.     </p><p>Once on top of this flying machine, wind whipping across the sunny stone surface, Link heads towards some malformed mass at its very center.</p><p>The Hylian hardly taps that slab of his to the eye on the malignant pedestal, and the stone around them begins to quake. An abominable call and black-lined angry fire burst out. Ribbons of blue light surround them in swirls, churning up around Link’s shoulders until they fan outwards and coalesce into a bright blue sphere. Ghirahim’s soul spikes, some effervescent sharpness forcing sharp edges all through his ancient spirit.     </p><p>He knows this power.   </p><p>A cantankerous beast unravels from the blue sphere of light. A ghastly ghoul, haggardly thin as if sucked dry of life, yet colossal where it hangs like a corpse in the open air. Oh– even after three thousand years of blotted slumber, this emptying endless scream of deathless horror could not feel any more like home.         </p><p>He is before his Master, gripped in the hands of their singular enemy, stark and obvious in his betrayal.     </p><p>‘Good luck! That thing is one of Ganon’s own, and it fights dirty!’ That disembodied bird says, confirming what Ghirahim had already felt in cold reality, ‘It defeated me a hundred years ago, but only because I was winging it.’     </p><p>That blue kaleidoscope eye pierces through him. Ghirahim’s consciousness wanes, nothing more than a source for the call of his Master, nothing but a tool to be used.     </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
‘I can’t believe I’m actually saying this…’ Link hears Revali, feels the warm rush of vibrant pine-scented wind shoot up the back of his neck, much warmer than the natural gusts all around him. ‘But you must avenge me, Link!’     </p><p>The request sets his heart on fire. Revali never asked him for anything, he knows that without needing to remember; at least nothing Link knew how to give, nothing he could reflect back nearly half as brightly. But this, slaying the monster who killed him, fixing as much as he could the task he'd failed at a hundred years ago… He could give that, he could give all of that. Link narrows his gaze, heart thudding, and holds the black hilt in his hands harder.     </p><p>He’ll <em>destroy</em> Ganon. For everything he took, for the warm wind on his neck, for the evergreen smell of dark feathers he'll never know again.   </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Rough hands on his hilt snap him awake and Ghirahim convulses, his spirit writhing like a ball of black snakes. That beast before them is no simple monster. It <em>is</em> Demise, some partition of his spirit split from its core but <em>him</em> all the same.     </p><p><em>YOU INSOLENT CHILD!</em> He allows his voice the full width of its demonic call, his steel vibrating through screeching rings. <em>YOU IDIOTIC, WORTHLESS, SPINELESS, INCOMPREHENSIBLE BRAT. DOES YOUR STUPIDITY KNOW NO BOUNDS? I HAVE BEEN NEEDLESSLY TOLERANT THUS FAR, BUT NOW I SHOULD TURN IN YOUR VERY HANDS AND CULL YOUR INSIDES MYSELF!</em></p><p>Jumping away from the swing of his Master’s great claw, said incomprehensible brat's only response is a confused, yet focused, glare.   </p><p><em>I WILL EVISCERATE YOU AND WEAR YOUR BONES AS A CROWN! SOAK MY WEARY SOUL IN YOUR BLOOD!</em>    </p><p>“St–”</p><p>This emulation has no knowledge of the bonds that connect a sword to its Master. He doesn’t have his <em>rightful</em> blade and even if he were in possession of that worthless metal stick its spirit had been laid to permanent rest by its goddess; reduced her to benign ineffectiveness. This Link has no way of knowing what blunder he has stumbled into here. Yet his understandable ignorance matters little to Ghirahim in this moment, drowning in the shadow of his Master, haggard and worn and partial as this monster may be. Ghirahim had intended to meet him in combat from the start yet now it is <em>real</em>, now it is staring at him.     </p><p>
  <em>You NEGLECTED to inform me we would be BATTLING DEMISE.</em>
</p><p>Sweating palms roll over his hilt. “It’s not–”   </p><p><em>It is ENOUGH of him! Did you NOT THINK it would be PERTINENT for ME, the BLADE of your HANDS, to KNOW– OH I</em> WILL <em> KILL YOU, SKYCHILD, I WILL CUT YOUR FLESH INTO PRETTY PATTERNS, MAKE DIAMONDS OF YOUR SKIN UNTIL YOU BEG ME FOR MERCY THAT WILL NEVER COME. </em></p><p>A single hand leaves Ghirahim’s hilt. It presses into a sternum, saying something without words.   </p><p>
  <em>I do NOT KNOW what your INFERNAL hand gestures MEAN!      </em>
</p><p>“I–” </p><p>A violet blast of energy from the canon-hand cuts him off. Link jumps out of the way, rolling across his back over stone and smacking Girahim’s sword against the ground under him, off-kilter and jerking. The Hylian stands up quickly and Ghirahim wants to throw him off this accursed beast and send him hurtling down to his death like pernicious golden raindrop-     </p><p>‘Gentlemen,’ that bird’s voice calls out, still ingratiating yet barely registering, ‘I hate to interrupt such a… troubling conversation. But you two had better learn how to get along, and fast. Ganon’s calamity seeks to divide, to deform and skew. Trust me, I would know. Do not help it in this endeavour.’       </p><p>Link, now standing up straight and attentive, takes a deep breath, and Ghirahim feels rough hands hold him as tight as they ever had. The call of his Master is loud, no longer that vague skin-crawling feeling it had been since he’d woken up. Demise, even this small fraction of him, even in this deranged form, maintains his ownership.     </p><p>“We can do this,” the Hylian says. Hands roll around his hilt. The grip is so tight Ghirahim would likely gasp if he had any mouth to do it with. “I’m stronger than Ganon.” His voice is a slow whisper, the perfect cadence of calmness. “Or I <em>will</em> be,” he amends. “I promise.”     </p><p><em>Shut your infernal mouth.</em> A wave of relentless loud light pulses from his hands in a noxious undulation of power; one the demon feels daily yet <em>this</em> light is loud enough to blot out everything, some screaming scourge of purity; what is this? he asks even as he reaches for it, and weary of it all Ghirahim says, <em>I do not want to hear your voice, not for a lifetime.</em></p><p>Lips pressed into a thin line, Link nods. </p><p>And then he charges in.</p><p>The blighted form of Ghirahim’s Master shoots violet beams from that canon, dodged easily enough by nimble feet. Ghirahim is brought up to block the shot once, used – as they are accustomed to by now – as a shield. His blade is soaked in the power that owns his very soul; the demon focuses on rough hands, on grunts of effort, on those small irritating noises the Hylian makes as he fights. He is eventually latched to a shoulder in want of a bow and arrow. The fact is irritating and Ghirahim means to gift the boy some remark, but a wave of brutal energy forces him to silence.     </p><p>Link plants his feet firmly, aiming arrows of ice and fire, attempting to shoot the blight down from the sky. Yet even resting on his back the effort required to push away Demise’s call is <em>maddening.</em> Ghirahim yearns to cut apart that mechanical flesh, wants to kill so he cannot be controlled, to cut and slice and devour and plunge himself so fully he becomes that very energy trying to suffocate his soul to weakness. In possession of his full power he could do better than that measly twig of an arrow!        </p><p>As if his silent complaints were somehow heard, the Hylian stows his quiver and lifts Ghirahim from his back. </p><p>If he returned to his Master, Ghirahim would be granted his complete arsenal. If he renounced himself to Demise's call he would be held by the vicious, cold hands he was created for and he would not be haunted by whispers. The demon sword burns with sudden, impatient yearning, and the power at his hilt is too weak to contain him. Too weak to possibly keep him.       </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Hidden behind a pillar as he waits for an opening, Link gasps.   </p><p>The sword at his hands – <em>Ghirahim</em> – releases power in a sudden flood. It hikes through his hands with scourging energy, coming from the depths of some underworld unknown. Link sucks air through his teeth. The power <em>burns</em>; it burns like radiated heat from the sun, it burns like the light from stars. Raw energy surges through Link’s palms and fingers, crackling along his skin and bones and down his spine.     </p><p>It doesn’t hurt, not at all. It’s a lot, it’s too much, it eats Link up from the inside out, melting his head into a haze as he swoons – But it feels good. It’s better than anything he’s ever felt.     </p><p>A sharp intake of cool air stings his lungs. His heart pounds hard enough to rattle his jaw and his skull. Blood seems to rush behind his eyes. Link knows in an instant that if he lets all of this inside him he'll die – that whatever this ancient dark power is asking of him, he can't give. But Link holds on anyway because in another instant he knows the sword under his palms is in pain, that Ghirahim somehow is screaming.     </p><p>It doesn't last much longer. Link presses his back against the stone pillar, hidden from Ganon’s blight, and closes his eyes. Waves of raw darkness roll up and down his arms, blocked from his heart. He waits it out. He waits until the hilt feels like it always does: warm and mildly ominous.     </p><p><em>Are you okay?</em> he wants to ask but his mouth won't work. Instead Link rubs his thumb over the front of a dark crossguard.     </p><p><em>What?</em> Ghirahim sounds disorientated. His metallic voice is distant, like he's having a hard time reaching through Link's head. <em>Why are we hiding like mice behind this pillar! Bring me in close!</em></p><p>Link grips at his hilt, searching. He feels normal. But he touches his crossguard again, fingering over the grooves. He's not moving an inch until he's sure.     </p><p>
  <em>Cease your baseless concern! Did we not come to this place for this very purpose? I will DELIGHT in eviscerating even a small portion of my Master! You will not deny me this now that you have carried my blade here. </em>
</p><p>He shoves his thumb forcefully inside a groove, asking his question that way, demanding an answer for it.   </p><p><em>I am fine! How many times must I tell you? I am a demon and a sword no less! I am MADE for combat!</em> A red gem flutters furiously. <em>Now, I TOLD YOU TO BRING ME IN CLOSE!</em>     </p><p>To Link's surprise the blade in his hands tugs him forwards, forcing him to step out of the pillar's protection. Windblight hones its single eye in on them in seconds. The whirr of building magic echoes out, and then Link isn't left with much of a choice – though the sword in his hands feels just as ready as he is.     </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The initial stage of their second attempt at this battle is unfulfilling at best, as this sliver of Demise continues to soar through the air and shoot beams at them from its cowardly long range. To his surprise, however, the Hylian does not set Ghirahim on his back in want for his bow, not for a moment. Instead warm hands hold his hilt with incessant fervor and they adopt the delightful procedure of returning this blight's power back at it – as they performed with that singular guardian a week ago.     </p><p>Ghirahim cackles as he feels this fractional soul of Demise reel in pain. Part of his own spirit withers as he hurts his Master but even this fills him with pleasure as it signifies his relative freedom.       </p><p>It is not long before the Hylian knocks the beast from the air, and they rush in for the final hit.   </p><p>Oh it will be sweet, Ghirahim muses to himself, the taste of his rotten haggard form!     </p><p>His blade is turned around in calloused hands, hiked up to strike straight downward, aimed at a limp gnarled head. Wind whips his steel. Bright afternoon sun pulses. The light at his hilt stronger. And with a shout he's brought directly down, blade gleaming blackly in the sun.     </p><p>Ghirahim is driven away at the last moment, his sword rebounding, forced aside by the magical tether of their bond and the ringing in his head.   </p><p>
  <em>NO!</em>
</p><p>His blade twists Link's wrists awkwardly and the hero cries out in surprise. He stumbles sideways, the sword's tip clanking against stone and catching him before he falls.     </p><p>Link shakes his head, hair long fallen from its tie. Fingers rub at his crossguard in an annoying display of comfort that Ghirahim rejects with a pulse of dark power.     </p><p><em>AGAIN!</em> He rings inside the Hylian's head. <em>Line me up once more!</em></p><p>Link only stands there, staring down at his dark steel.   </p><p><em>YOU STUPID HYLIAN, YOU USELESS SWORDSMAN, YOU WORTHLESS WHELP OF A BOY</em>, Ghirahim curls inside the void of his blade, trying to find the force at his hilt, trying to find any source of power to center within himself, <em>YOU WILL STRIKE WITH ME AGAIN! </em></p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Link does. This needs to be over, now.   </p><p>With two stomps of his boots he sets them in front of Windblight's lulled head again. Digging his heels into the stone under him, Link feels that roaring power at his hands and stabs the black blade straight down into the blight's psychedelic eye. This time it makes contact. The sword sinks through the stone and glass of the ragged monster’s head.     </p><p>He hears a crack. It must be the eye breaking apart under the oppressive size of Ghirahim's sword.   </p><p>The monster shudders, convulsing against the hard stone under it like a worm drying in the sun. Link grunts and keeps the sword buried in its massive head. His muscles ache with each heartbeat, from exhaustion, from the energy biting at his palms. After a few more long twitches of its decrepit body, the beast falls still, and in moments crumbles into nothing but dust.     </p><p>The dust blows away in harsh wind. The battle field clears, silent except for rushing air. Gripped in his hands, even Ghirahim is quiet. The sun is nearly set. It had taken them a full day, but it’s finally over. Link heaves out a long sigh.     </p><p>He hears a mechanical click – Medoh righting itself, freed from all the calamity that had infested it. The central control unit in front of him glows blue now, instead of that dark violet.     </p><p>Link opens his mouth, looking down at the sword in his hands, about to ask if the demon's alright. He had known the blights were connected to Ganon but it never crossed his mind to tell Ghirahim. Not for any reason. He's not used to having someone to share information with. And the demon said from the start he wanted to destroy Ganon, so he hadn't thought much of it. But something had happened. Ghirahim had been furious and worse than that, he'd been in pain, and Link doesn't know why.       </p><p>A higher toned voice cuts him off, though; a voice as proud as any songbird.   </p><p>‘Well, I’ll be plucked…’</p><p>Link turns away from the terminal, away from his sword.   </p><p>‘You defeated him, eh?’</p><p>Blue-grey feathers, washed out in fading light; an overly-proud stance; wings tucked behind his back like he’s about to profess some great lesson; a yellow beak framed by green eyes that look down at Link with an expectation, with loathing, with a challenge that had tempered itself to more of a question.     </p><p>‘Who would’ve thought?’</p><p>A gust of warm wind swarms him, blowing through his loosed blond hair and setting it in a mess around his cooling cheeks. As the sun sinks low, night fast approaching, all the heat disappears from him. Link sets the sword on his back, turning completely to face someone he wants to call an old friend but isn't sure they'd ever gotten that far.     </p><p>From ten feet away Revali looks at him. Link fights for his mouth to work. To say something now because he won’t have any more chances, but nothing comes.     </p><p>The Rito turns away, looking out at empty dusk air. ‘Well done,’ he says. ‘I suppose I should thank you – both of you, I mean. I doubt you could have freed my spirit on your own.’ His tone is grandiose like always, but he’s not looking at Link. ‘This returns Medoh back to its rightful owner.’ His wings wave in drastic gestures, all of it seeming a bit nervous, frantic, last-minute.     </p><p>Link takes a step towards him, pulling hair behind his ears as it obstructs his view.   </p><p>Revali huffs. ‘Don’t preen yourself just for doing your job,’ he says, sleek feathered head tilting down to glare at him. And even though Link can't remember all the times Revali had looked at him like that he knows he's been at the end of that look a hundred times at least. ‘I suppose you have proven yourself worthy of my help… Hylia knows your soul is weak on its own. Ready to have a little boost?’     </p><p>With dramatic flare Revali lifts a wing to the sky, wind and energy swirling down over him. In the slowly settling darkness he glows brightly, and Link is stuck motionless, staring as grey feathers dance. A ball of energy forms in his open hand. Revali tosses that small sphere of light at him like an accusation. ‘I suppose I can suffer roosting in your soul, if it is to save the world.’     </p><p>Link is hit directly in the chest, that ball of light sinking through him. Magic pricks at his skin. Revali’s energy is warm and the sharp scent of pine fills his nose. The blond closes his eyes, breathing deep as borrowed energy sifts through his own.     </p><p>‘There. You have a piece of my heart – how lucky for you,’ Revali says. ‘Take special care of it, you’re hardly deserving.’ A warm blast of wind rakes through his hair again, pulling hard and forcing his eyes open. ‘I’ll prepare Medoh for our attack on Ganon,’ he continues with a feathered fist. He drops it seconds later, and his tone loses its grandeur to the wind. ‘But only if you still think you’ll need my help when you’re fighting inside Hyrule Castle.’     </p><p>Surrounded by warm wind, by pine and evergreen, up in the dark sheen of twilight, above Rito Village where he’s sure they met for the first time–     <br/>
Link closes his eyes again.   </p><p><em>I’ll need you</em>, he thinks, willing his lips to part and say what he never could when they were both sharing a lifetime, <em>I can’t do anything like you can.</em></p><p>‘Feel free to thank me now.’   </p><p>He opens his eyes and fights his own silence, biting at his bottom lip, palms sweating and hands worn.   </p><p>Faint orbs of light float around his head. Revali’s energy surrounding him, like his gale, like the scent of a forest full of pine, like a memory of the echo of his life.     </p><p>‘Or… nevermind,’ he says, folding his wings behind his back again, slowly turning away. ‘Just go.’     </p><p><em>No</em>. Link twists his expression into an ugly frown, his eyes wet with half-remembered remarks, with wind from wings blasting straight into his face, with slinging contempt he understood but couldn’t do anything about. Link didn’t ask to be Hylia’s Hero, and he didn't expect anyone to be his secondary.     </p><p>He runs, he doesn't care if it breaks apart their normal way of being with each other, if Revali will find it weird or if it’s completely different from whoever he was a hundred years ago. Link feels like taking a risk, like taking every single risk that shows itself to him, and Revali is <em>dead</em>, he’s gone forever so what does he have to lose?     </p><p>Eyes watery, Link grabs fistfulls of feathers and buries his face in a warm chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, breathless against the Rito, a red shirt wet under his closed eyes, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–”     </p><p>Revali is sputtering, his whole body frozen in shock. ‘What- What are you…’ His voice fades.   </p><p>Slowly, moving as if holding delicate glass, two wings lay themselves nervously across Link’s back.     </p><p>‘I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.’ </p><p>Link shakes his head, blond hair over his brow tangling with a red shirt, fingers still grabbing feathers at his sides. It mattered to him. He couldn’t reflect it back, but it always mattered.     </p><p>He stays wrapped in feathers for a long moment, smelling pine and evergreen.   </p><p>Revali is the one to break their embrace, clearing his throat and pushing Link away with one wing. ‘Well. At least you have someone with you to temper that ego of yours, since I am no longer around to do it,’ he says, looking down behind Link at the black sword.     </p><p>It’s only then that Link realizes Ghirahim hasn’t said a word. Wouldn’t he normally mock him for being overly sentimental? Shouldn't he have cheered at their victory, as he had so many times before?     </p><p>‘<em>Someone</em> needs to remind the Chosen Hero he’s no better than the rest of us,’ Revali says.   </p><p>A voice slips out, echoing as if from from a dark, dingy hall.   </p><p>
  <em>…unsightly little pigeon…    </em>
</p><p>That normally sonorous voice in his head is strained, too quiet and too flat.   </p><p>The pressure on his back is <em>cold</em> Link realizes with his own frigid fear. Panic coursing through him, he unlatches the sword from his shoulder. He holds it parallel to his face, eyes reflecting black steel and a red gleaming gem.     </p><p>A deep, ugly crack stares back at him.   </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Cracked I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts at the crossguard and ends near the middle of the black blade. A single weighted, sawtooth-gliding crack. Its edges coil in sharp arcs like splintering rivers or bare tree branches in winter. The fissure is sunk far into the steel. While he holds the hilt with sweat-soaked fingers, uncomfortable in suffocating gloves, that crack gapes at Link. It’s an abyssal dark cavern, insides never meant to be seen.    </p><p>“Ghirahim…”</p><p>His grip is shaking, slick with cold sweat. His head is a mess from memories and combat and blaring fear. How had he not noticed? That loud cracking noise, it hadn’t been the Blight's eye.   </p><p><em>...kill you… stupid boy…</em>  </p><p>Link tenses, his mouth shut in a wary line. That voice isn’t right. It's more like the sound of steel scraped across stone in an echoing chamber; more like the cold press of dry ice on heated skin. Link can barely hear it even though it’s inside his head.    </p><p>‘Is something the matter?’ Revali asks, peering down at him.</p><p>Words gone, Link holds the blade flat so his old friend can see.  </p><p>‘Don’t get your feathers in a twist,’ Revali says, studying the cracked black steel. ‘I doubt the Goddess would let anything happen to the sword held by her chosen hero.’</p><p>He thinks back to the melting steel at his back in that shrine; to Impa threatening to throw him into Death Mountain; to the dark burning feeling that lines his blood sometimes that Link is sure is ruining his soul, somehow.   </p><p>
  <em>You and I were never meant to walk the same path. </em>
</p><p>Hylia's not going to help.  </p><p>‘You’d better take off,’ Revali says, looking somberly down his yellow beak. ‘I will take care of Medoh; you go take care of that sword.’   </p><p>Link looks up at him, hilt still gripped with panicked hands. It’ll probably be the last time he's ever on the end of that stare. It feels heavy but the cracked sword in his hands is heavier. Link meets ghostly green eyes with a firm nod and sets a hand over his heart, sweeping it out towards Revali. <em>Thank you.</em></p><p>
  <em><br/>
--</em>
</p><p><br/>
Link’s boots hit the wooden landing, rattling tired knees and the scaffolding under them. He pitches a little sideways. His legs tangle for a blurry moment. He doesn’t fall but does drop his glider, and it clacks against the wooden walkway. Trying to breathe evenly, he picks it up.   </p><p>“Ghirahim,” he says, pulling the sword out and looking at the red diamond sunk between a dark crossguard. “Tell me what's going on.”   </p><p>
  <em>… you understand now, don’t you? … pathetic child… </em>
</p><p>“What's happening?” He tries again, gripping the hilt tight. </p><p>It’s still dark outside, hours before daylight, and the village around them is asleep. Whatever celebrations the Rito will have over Vah Medoh’s rescue will be hours from now.   </p><p>
  <em>… left me to rot in that… </em>
</p><p>“Can you even hear me?”  </p><p>
  <em>...bastardized reiteration... </em>
</p><p>Link has had other weapons break on him. Rusted swords from the ruins in Hyrule Field, spears he's taken from lizalfos, and axes he'd stolen from stables when he hadn't had much of a choice. Even the stronger weapons he'd found in Death Mountain broke eventually. But he figured Ghirahim, being demonic and <em>magical</em>, was different.   </p><p>“Is it because it was Ganon?” The words come out croaked. A cool wind passes over Link, carrying nothing but stagnant silence, all freshness sucked away in the face of his own panic. “Ghirahim,” he tries again, his vocal chords scratching, his head threatening that thundery fog of overworn feeling, “you need to tell me what's going on.” Blue eyes reflect glimmering black and burning red and his voice crumbles down to a bone-worn whisper, “You never tell me anything.”    </p><p>
  <em>...nothing left of him...</em>
</p><p>What does being cracked <em>do</em> to a demon sword? Link has no idea. Despite their weeks together Ghirahim hadn’t told him anything about himself. Link had figured a few things out on his own: he needs to fight monsters or he gets moody, he wakes up early most mornings, he likes being carried around, he can see impossibly far inside the sword but has regular sight outside of it… But nothing substantial. Noting specific about being an ancient demonic sword. Nothing about belonging to <em>Ganon</em>.   </p><p>Link heads to Kass’s house. He doesn’t know what else to do, or who to ask. He doesn’t trust Kaneli not to destroy the sword, and Kass has been all over Hyrule. He might know something, somewhere Link can go, someone who knows anything about repairing immortal demonic steel.    </p><p>Kass is awake when he gets there, sitting outside his home and looking up at Medoh. Link had been vaguely aware of the sound of large stone talons wrapping around the crest of a cliff, but the distant metallic voice droning in his head was at the forefront. Kass begins to congratulate him, but Link doesn’t hear this either.   </p><p>Unable to speak, he holds the sword out, Ghirahim’s fractured voice in his head.</p><p>
  <em>...what fool creates five little lives in the midst of war… </em>
</p><p>“Oh dear,” Kass says, a feathered hand hovering over the fissure for a moment. “Did Medoh...?” Link nods before the question makes it fully out of Kass's beak. “I'm afraid I don't know much about swords. Not a thing, really.” Link keeps his gaze held steady. There has to be <em>something</em>. Someone in all of Hyrule or the whole world who knows about cursed swords. “Ah,” blue feathers ruffle in sudden remembrance, “There is a technology lab in northern Akkala,” Kass says. “I believe they specialize in some sort of ancient weaponry. I don’t know if they’ll be able to do anything... but it is worth a try.”   </p><p>Kass looks at him with profound sorrow. Link barely notices as he sets the cracked sword on his back. How far away is Northern Akkala? How long will it take him? How long does Ghirahim even have?</p><p>“Thank you,” Kass says, feathers landing firmly on Link's shoulders, “<em>Both</em> of you. Such an outcome is undeserved.”   </p><p>After a small nod, Link pulls the slate out, opening the map with a question in his eyebrows. Kass shows him where the lab is.  When he sees that it’s the full way across the north of Hyrule his stomach sinks. It’ll take weeks to get there.   </p><p>But if he doesn’t <em>use</em> Ghirahim...</p><p>Signing his thanks to Kass, Link bursts into a run to glide off the atrium, heading for the wilds of Hyrule once more. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Boots padding against short grass, Link heads directly north, passing by Rito Stable. The soft yellow glow of its warm lights tugs at his memories. Ghirahim's grin, accented by a long waving tongue, had been demented – but Link hadn't seen it like that. For a brief moment Ghirahim had sat next to him by the fire, something he'd never done before, and the strange grin had caught his eye.    </p><p>
  <em>You are staring. </em>
</p><p>Link runs up the path past the lamp lights of the stable. Along the start of a small hill, surrounded on both sides by rocky ledges, there’s a three tiered platform. There are a few lizalfos on the wooden structure. Most of them are asleep but one is awake, patrolling beneath the tower on the grass. A long spear is slung over its shoulder.   </p><p>Black blade left securely on his back, Link nocks an arrow and aims for the head of the single lizalfo on guard. He hits the lizard through the temple. Its corpse drops softly onto the grass, violet vapour sifting out into the night air.    </p><p>Walking on light feet, Link takes the dead lizalfo’s spear. He grips it firmly. It’s light in his hands but it’ll have to do.  </p><p>A sharp warmth fluxes at his back, almost like he's being prodded.    </p><p><em>WHAT are you doing...?</em>  </p><p>“You’re hurt,” he whispers, sneaking away from the rest of the slumbering monsters.  </p><p><em>...hurt...? </em>A laugh glides from his left ear to his right, pattering like rain on far away cliffs. <em> …never hurt... sniveling brat... </em></p><p>Link chooses not to reply. There’s no point. He feels torn in a way he didn’t think was possible. That crack running down black steel might as well be down his own back, too. Should he even be trying to save Ghirahim? After everything he’s said and done?   </p><p>Suddenly the demon’s voice comes in clear, no longer a distant whisper. It’s shrill and snarling. </p><p>
  <em>Are you ignoring me, boy? Have you learned no obedience as of yet? Perhaps I should have relieved you of your head in that parrot’s wretched home. Your own suffering never was a great thing to you. </em>
</p><p>That voice slips like fingers under Link’s skin, pushing into muscle and squeezing around his veins. Pain forces his eyes shut.    </p><p>
  <em>No, you always had more of a reaction to exterior anguish. So noble the brave hero is! How nauseating. Self-preservation is fleeting in the heart leeched of autonomy. So KILL for your goddess, little hero! As she demands! </em>
</p><p>A loud ring of chimes sound out. </p><p>They’re not inside his head, not this time.  </p><p>The chimes echo along the path in the clear night air, the sound amplified by the small rocky hills on either side of him.   </p><p>Wide-eyed he watches the lizalfos on the wooden platform above him jump awake. Link’s blond head and bright Rito coat are spotted in seconds.   </p><p>He holds the spear up in front of him, ready for when they rush in. </p><p><em>None of that!</em> The demon’s voice claws at his skull now, a distorted reflection of the kinder way he had said those same words before. In a flash of diamonds that blind Link, Ghirahim’s blade is in his hands, struck up between Link and the three lizalfos running towards him.   </p><p>Clenching his jaw, he sets the sword on the latch at his back again, looking left and right for his spear. He only has seconds to find it before he’ll be skewered.   </p><p><em>INDIGNANT</em> <em>CHILD! YOU </em>WILL<em> USE ME.</em></p><p>His voice is different again. As loud as the roaring void of space. A scream without any sound.  </p><p>“No,” Link says, the single word rough and breathless. He finds his spear behind him and picks it up. Focusing his gaze, he listens for reptilian hisses in case one sneaks up behind him and readies to attack the three in front.   </p><p>
  <em>DROP THAT HORRID STICK. </em>
</p><p>Again there’s a rush of moon-lit cascading diamonds.  </p><p>A black hilt lays itself heavily in his palms, the spear disappearing once more.  </p><p>“Stop it!” Link swings Ghirahim back over his shoulder, and he jumps away from an oncoming attack. The three lizalfos had reached him.   </p><p><em>WIELD ME!</em> The distant scream of Ghirahim's voice forces a writhing, languid shiver down his spine. But Link keeps his eyes on the three monsters surrounding him. <em>AM I NOT YOUR SWORD?</em>  </p><p>“I don’t know,” he says, feeling out of his mind, his heart, and his depth. “I don’t–” He cuts himself off as he crouches to dodge an attack, picking up his spear while he's down near the grass.   </p><p><em>You continue to wield that twig.... </em>The demon's voice changes again, once more the distant sound of a rainstorm. <em>...do your palms not …. power….</em></p><p>Link lunges in and with two quick jabs he sinks his spear into the chest of two lizalfos, a horrible wet thunk sounding out each time. “What?” he asks desperately, pulling his spear free as the monsters drop to the dark grass. Swinging his head left and right, he searches for the third lizard. “What did you say?” He doesn't want Ghirahim to go silent on him. Somehow that would be worse.    </p><p><em>...I know you feel me in ...</em>  </p><p>“Feel you where?” he asks under his breath, spinning in a circle, trying to find the missing lizalfo.   </p><p>
  <em>... turn your spirit to dust... little hero ….all I require... time.... LINK– </em>
</p><p>He cries out when claws sink into his back. They sneak in under Ghirahim's blade. Sharp talons tear his coat and haul like hooks through his skin. The beast had come upin behind him, somehow; unnoticed in the hero's divided attention.   </p><p>
  <em>...what nectar…!</em>
</p><p>A morbid groan engulfs Link’s head.  </p><p>Link fights to keep the rushing aftershocks from sudden pain from toppling him over. The gouges in his back flare with fire-like stings, forcing him to suck pants through grinding teeth.   </p><p>A lower groan comes from Ghirahim next. This one is full of rolling pleasure, the sort of noise Link had always imagined in a sweeter context.    </p><p>When the demon speaks again his tone is as clear as the night sky domed above Link's head. </p><p>
  <em>Your blood tastes like paradise, have I neglected all this time to tell you? I would submerge myself beneath an entire ocean of it. Boy I will bleed you dry, just wait, just wait, just…. </em>
</p><p>Link feels so small under the scope of a black sky. Just some tiny speck under a suppressive starlight.    </p><p>The lizalfo that had sliced through his back screeches in his face, bile and saliva splattering on his nose and cheeks and into his eyes. Link grips the spear tight. He ignores the blood rolling down his back. He ignores the scrapes down his arms from Medoh. He ignores the stinging lines across his shoulders from straps that hadn’t fit him right. He tries his best to ignore the demon in his head.   </p><p>Almost immediately he’s drenched in diamonds. It's more than he’s ever seen Ghirahim use before. They prick at his skin, tiny painful pinches like bee stings.   </p><p>When they fade the black sword is in Link’s hands again, his spear nowhere to be found.  </p><p>
  <em>...USE ME... CONTEMPTIBLE CHILD...</em>
</p><p>Link looks miserably down at the hilt in his hands, lizalfo paused in animal confusion after the display of magic.   </p><p>This is never going to work. Why had he ever thought it could?  </p><p>Link runs. He digs his heels into grass and dashes left, bursting away from the fight like a rabbit.  </p><p>Ghirahim’s words come in a waterfall, pouring so fast Link swears he hears the words out of order.    </p><p><em>HOW DARE YOU SCURRY FROM A FIGHT YOU FRIGHTENED LITTLE MOUSE. DID I NOT TELL YOU YOU HAVE NO NEED TO FEAR FOR YOU HOLD THE MOST DREADFUL BEING IN ALL OF TIME IN YOUR DISGUSTING UNDESERVING F–</em>   </p><p>He dashes up over the hill, eyes wet with wild fear, head spinning from lack of sleep and the venomous, hungry voice screaming like a burning void inside it. That voice… It’s the hollow, soundless pain of being split slowly in two.   </p><p>Blood soaks through the back of Link’s coat as he runs, gushing against black steel. After a minute no more words seep into his head.</p><p>Feeling the blood start to dribble down the backs of his legs, he comes to the stomach-rolling conclusion that the demon must be… preoccupied.    </p><p>Link doesn't let himself think about it. He just runs. Over the grassy hill the landscape turns gradually to snow. He needs to find a place to stop for the night, but he wants to get to that tech lab <em>now</em>. If he could just use a shrine he could take them near Goron City, then it would only be the trek around Death Mountain. But he can’t – he can't use the shrines, can't ask Impa for help, and he’s supposed to be able to. Hylia had meant for him to use the slate and enter the shrines.   </p><p>This is wrong. This is all <em>wrong</em>. Why had he kept this monster with him all this time?   </p><p>Ghirahim tried to <em>kill</em> him in Kass’s house. Link fingers at the thin slice along his neck, breaths beginning to show in the cold air. He can remember the suffocating weight on his chest, the demon’s voice devoid of life, the empty eyes.   </p><p>Why does he feel so attached? He doesn’t <em>know</em> Ghirahim. He doesn’t know anything about him. Link thought the demon lied when he said they hadn’t known each other a hundred years ago. But Revali hadn’t recognized him and neither did Kelani or Impa. <em>Everyone</em> was afraid of him. Even Kass, as open-minded as he was, had noticed that the sword was strange.   </p><p>The grass turns to snow, and the snow turns deep, devouring the heavy boots he'd bought in Rito Village. Darkness hangs over the wintery landscape of Tabantha. The heavy blanket of nightfall is twice as oppressive with snow to meet its face.</p><p>Link heads towards the Tabantha Village Ruins, the name appearing on the slate as he walks, too tired to run. Ghirahim is still quiet. Blood slinks down the back of his legs all the way to his ankles. He has one elixir, the one from Kass, and drinking it doesn’t heal the wounds completely, but enough to probably save his life.   </p><p>Ever since Link woke up a month ago he’d been on his own. Out in the forests and rivers and cliffs of Hyrule, he'd always been alone. Through every night, through thunderstorms and through battles, through all of it.   </p><p>But he’s never felt alone like this before.  </p><p>The Tabitha Ruins are scattered with monsters who howl and screech at him under white moonlight. Link wrangles a rusting sword out of a moblin’s hands and jumps in a forward arc to slash it across it’s gut. Ghirahim is absolutely silent. A lizalfo rushes in next and he faces it with a wild look, his head throbbing from pressure, blood loss apparent in pale cheeks. Still the demon at his back doesn’t whisper a word.   </p><p>The lizalfo races in on him and Link holds the sword back, ready to cut–</p><p>A flash of diamonds has a black hilt in his hands mid-motion. When he strikes through the lizard it’s with Ghirahim’s blade. The rusted one clatters uselessly against ice-covered rocks below.  </p><p>“<em>No</em>!” Link shouts, the single word more of a scratch than a word at all.  </p><p>The lizalfo keels over dead, slamming into the snow.</p><p>Link holds the sword out in front of him, panting heavily, staring with desperate eyes. The crack grows. It breaks apart the strange steel, widening the fissure. The sound is horrible. He feels the sword vibrate as the crack widens.   </p><p>
  <em>…you will… no other weapon… </em>
</p><p>“You’re <em>breaking</em>,” Link says, gripping the hilt with a tightness that seems to strangle his own throat.  </p><p>
  <em>...impossible...</em>
</p><p> “Stop- <em>please</em>, stop. I’ll do whatever you want.”  </p><p>
  <em>...dangerous offer… </em>
</p><p>“We can go to those hot springs,” he says, licking his chapped lips against the cold, tasting monster blood there, “but first let me–”   </p><p>Ghirahim cackles through his head, fragile and manic all at once. <em>... you beginning to understand…. boy...?</em></p><p>“Understand what?” Link asks, desperate to distract the sword. He can’t stand here and feel afraid. He can’t just stand here and give up. Link scans the ruins around him. There are two other lizalfos, a few blue chuchus and a moblin further up the cliff to his left. But on the other side of all that, striking up into the night sky, there’s a tower.    </p><p>Decision made, Link begins to run while a monster murmurs carnal words through his head.</p><p>
  <em>I can be of no use to you. The taste of your BLOOD…. I shall only desire your immediate death. ...even now I wish to snuff out that illumination of.... </em>
</p><p>“How...” Link starts in a hush, sneaking through the soft snow and eyeing the lizalfos warily. “How would you do it?”   </p><p><em>How would I slaughter you? Oh very sweetly,</em> he says, voice dripping like venom from a clean, perfect fang, <em>With more care than a whelp like you deserves. I would hold your beating chest against my cold form and sink my fingers through your back, watching the life leave your eyes as I squeezed your very heart. I would tie you with the straps that tie us to each other and cut beautiful red lines across your proud chest. I would listen to your heartbeat as it slowly gave out… such a sweet sound… </em></p><p>With these descriptions in his head, Link climbs the tower. </p><p>His fingers had frozen minutes ago, even inside the gloves, along with the blood pooled down his back and legs. But he keeps his eyes trained upwards.   </p><p>“That’s– That’s all?” he says, tone hissed with effort and the pain of freezing joints.  </p><p>Ghirahim’s voice still isn’t a voice at all. It’s cutting glass, it’s breaking metal, it’s the cry of wind twisting through a humid hellscape, begging to be relieved from its own torment.   </p><p>
  <em>I would paint the WORLD red with your blood, HERO, given even half a chance. </em>
</p><p>Link hauls himself onto the top of the tower. It’s even colder up here. Freezing wind zips against his cheeks and open wounds. But there aren’t any monsters. Nothing to attack. Nothing.   </p><p> He stands on shaking knees and pulls the sword out. His gloves are covered in blood, both red and purple, all of it frozen.</p><p><em>PUT ME BACK.</em>  </p><p>“No.” </p><p>Link kicks snow away from a spot on the floor of the tower’s top platform, soft breaths fogging near his cheeks, the water of his eyes beginning to solidify.   </p><p>
  <em>Did you suppose there was something else here? Oh… fragile naivety was always my favourite to pulverize… Boy I will HAVE YOUR BLOOD.  </em>
</p><p>“Shut up,” he hisses in a whisper, his teeth starting to chatter.  </p><p>
  <em>Oh he has found his TONGUE ….. the little hero purports a tinge of recklessness ….. this pretence of ferocity will not get you very far faced with the obdurance of my resolve.... </em>
</p><p>“You’re not making any sense.”  </p><p>
  <em>Do you yet misunderstand? </em>
</p><p>The ringing words in Link’s head are a fire quelled by frigid water, smoke curling up and fogging through him.  </p><p>
  <em>We are not for each other. </em>
</p><p>Feeling heavier than all the oceans in all the world, Link slumps down the side of the tower. He holds the sword out in front of him while he falls onto his rear. The three claw marks send white-hot lines of pain through him as they scrape down the wall, but he lets it happen, uncaring even as he groans and his eyes slam shut.   </p><p>The demon inside his head is cackling; it’s a debased sound, breaking apart into howls he can’t describe. Link has heard him laugh happily, his <em>version</em> of happily at least – still a cackle but one from passionate joy. This laughter flooding his head makes him feel like his mouth is full of razored glass.    </p><p>
  <em>I will DEVOUR you ...I was made for little ELSE… </em>
</p><p>Link’s heart unravels in slow beats. Enough. Enough for today.</p><p>Sitting at the top of this snowy tower, he sets the tip of Ghirahim’s sword on the cold floor. That red gem flickers in and out of consciousness, the crack below it gnawing steel apart. Up this close, Link feels like he might fall right into the dark abyss of that fissure.   </p><p>
  <em>.... neglected to notice… blind FOOL… </em>
</p><p> Link sets the crossguard of the sword against his shoulder, leaning it back against him with quivering cold fingers. He doesn’t touch the blade. He remembers that evening by the fire when Ghirahim had ripped the sword from his hands. He just tucks the sword into the curve of his body and lets his head rest back against the frozen half-wall of the tower. Just for a few seconds. Just to breathe.   </p><p>Next, he pulls the slate out, sword between his arms, and selects the cloak he’d bought Ghirahim in Rito Village. The screen is blotched with dirt and blood from his fingers. The coat materializes on his lap. It’s large and lined with heavy fabric, probably tufts of feathers.   </p><p>Slowly, wind making it difficult, Link pulls the cloak around both of them. He tugs it across the blade first, making sure to encase the sword entirely. Then he pulls it back around his own shoulders.   </p><p>
  <em>RELEASE ME. </em>
</p><p>“No.”</p><p><em>I WILL SLAY YOU, SKYCHILD.</em>  </p><p>“Do it tomorrow,” Link says, water streaming down his cheeks, most of it melting snow as he breathes under the lofty cloak. He shivers, lips faintly blue but thawing.   </p><p>
  <em>...you yet misunderstand… you still… STILL… such insolence… bleed for… </em>
</p><p>Link pulls the cloak around them tighter, and falls asleep to a chorus of vivid threats.    </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
He wakes up sometime before noon, though the sky is clouded over and grey. The sword is still tucked into his chest and resting on his shoulder, dark plum-coloured fabric draped over his head and Ghirahim’s hilt. Link is grateful to wake up to silence. Barely he can feel that starry void of the demon resting, unconscious inside the blade, but this feels different too. When Link palms the hilt to move the sword he can tell Ghirahim is… sick.   </p><p>He unwraps them both from warm fabric, now soaked with snow that had frozen overnight. It cracks under his hands, white frost fluttering away.   </p><p>The wounds on Link’s back snap and pop open as he slowly pulls away from the wall behind him. He stands up, sword in his hands, and feels fresh blood slinking out. He’s going to need to take care of it. Kass’s elixir hadn’t been enough. Breathing through a throbbing headache, Link looks down at the sword.   </p><p>Even in clouded-over daylight, he can see the crack clearly. It surges in angry lines nearly to the sharp tip of the blade now. It almost cleaves the sword in two.   </p><p>Whether he should be helping Ghirahim or not, Link can’t leave him like this. He just can’t. Even now, even after Ghirahim had tried to kill him, after that strange dream, after every condescending thing the demon had said to him… He can't.    </p><p>He just needs a plan.</p><p>He thinks briefly about trying to put Ghirahim inside the slate like he used to with other weapons, but he already knows it wont work. It might even kill him, like the shrine nearly had.   </p><p>He knows what he needs to do. He knows what might work. The three claw marks on his back hadn’t healed. They’d barely scabbed over and are leaking again now. And the demon, pressed against his bloodied back last night, had been quiet.   </p><p>If he just keeps himself bleeding, it should keep the sword quiet, and stop him from trying to join a fight.   </p><p>In the misty light of a foggy winter morning, Link stands and latches the sword to his back. At least he’s asleep for now. He pulls out his glider, jaw set tight.   </p><p>There’s a swirling breeze from the west, full of pine and music, Rito Village waking up to their first day free of divine terror. Listening to this, Link leaps off the tower’s top platform.   </p><p>He glides past the lizalfos and moblins underneath, the blade at his back still thankfully silent. </p><p>Once he hits the snow he runs a few paces to be clear of the monsters’ range, and then he builds himself a small fire. Just enough to make a few elixirs. If he’s going to do this – bleed himself across the entire northern half of Hyrule – he’ll need stamina. He’s never done something like this before. Not that he can remember, anyway. He’s not even sure it’ll work. But he has to try. If Ghirahim breaks, if all of this ends right here…   </p><p>Biting at his bottom lip, he pours hot liquid into a glass bottle, the thought dying in his head.  </p><p>He makes ten stamina elixirs in all, hoping it’s enough.</p><p>Link stands, kicks out the fire, and starts east once again. </p><p>A stream of violet mist is wafting behind him. He spins in a circle but can’t find the source. There aren’t monsters around. It doesn’t take him long to catch on – when he spins the mist swirls, coming from behind him.   </p><p>Link doesn’t dare move the sword to look. It might wake Ghirahim up, first of all, but part of him just doesn’t want to see the calamity leaking from his blade.   </p><p>He makes his way across the snow instead, a single colourful figure against blankets of white, heavy black sword seeping violet mist like the tails of a shooting star.   </p><p>Had it been inside the sword this whole time? Ghirahim always radiates an oppressive dark energy, but that wasn’t Ganon’s malice, it doesn’t feel anything like it.   </p><p>Is this why he tried to kill Link in the middle of the night?</p><p>Did it matter? If Ghirahim is supposed to be with Ganon maybe it isn’t that the calamity had infected him; maybe he’s <em>made</em> of it.   </p><p>
  <em>Do you want to be?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you suppose I’d be prattling about in a swamp if I did?</em>
</p><p>He’d been so sure. When he’d taken that black hilt into his hands, from the very second he held it, Link had been sure this sword was supposed to be his.   </p><p>
  <em>There is no shame in discarding what is of no use to you, boy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We are not for each other.</em>
</p><p>Everyone Link talks to knows about the five Champions from a hundred years ago and the four Divine Beasts. Everyone knows who Princess Zelda is, and that she’s trapped in the castle. Every single person he’s met since waking up knows the history, more or less.</p><p>But Ghirahim doesn’t fit in with any of it. There’s no songs or stories about Ganon having a searing black blade. There’s definitely none about Hylia’s Hero wielding it.   </p><p>
  <em>Were you ever my sword? </em>
</p><p>Everything that has happened to him – everything that’s <em>still</em> happening – it’s all connected to each other, and to his unremembered past.  </p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>Except for <em>this</em> . Except for the black slash of steel across his back, leaking calamity just as surely as the ruined castle does.  </p><p>
  <em>Do you yet misunderstand?</em>
</p><p>Soft snow turns to slush under his feet as Link keeps walking, thankful the demon had stayed resting for such a long time. His vision is hazy and his head feels fuzzy, but he keeps going.   </p><p>
  <em>...finally… cold...</em>
</p><p>Link swallows, gripping the belts across his upper chest, and hopes the demon doesn’t have a lot to say as he wakes up.   </p><p>
  <em>...still carry… there is no purpose in this… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>...given time to recover, you tiring scion… sinew around your… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>…hold no true intent… my Master will again… yet… </em>
</p><p>His speech is more disjointed than it had been yesterday, but the warmth on Link’s back is as intense as ever. Ghirahim might be barely aware or half-crazed or <em>whatever</em> this is but he’s still powerful. Link grips at the belt across his chest again, holding tight as his boots pad through wet slush.   </p><p>Just as they come up to Tanagar Canyon, he hears and sees monsters approaching. Three lizalfos, two holding spears and one with shock arrows.</p><p>
  <em>… ahh at last… entertainment… </em>
</p><p>Link feels the blade heat up against his wounds and through his torn coat.</p><p>There’s nothing to it. The claw marks on his back are the biggest wounds he’s had so far, but that doesn’t matter. </p><p>Link pulls his shoulders forward with knitted eyebrows, his mouth shut tight through a painful groan. The cuts split apart slowly. Tiny wet pops crawl up his back.   </p><p>A disturbed moan rolls through his ears. It’s blissful and high and deranged and Link <em>never</em> wants to have to hear it again. Ghirahim isn’t in control of himself, can have no say about what’s being done – it’s the worst sort of sound Link’s ever heard.</p><p>Still, he’s able to tear a spear from sharp claws and kill all three of the lizalfos without Ghirahim trying to slip into his hands. The demon doesn’t make a sound. Perfectly silent while the blade is pressed flat against his blood.   </p><p>Once they're all dead, Link drinks one of his stamina elixirs, the slush-snow landscape tipping as he does. It takes a few minutes of blinking and waiting for the magic to seep into his blood, but eventually the world rights itself and Link can walk straight again.   </p><p>He heads towards the high edge of Tanagar Canyon, climbing uphill over icy rocks. The canyon’s edge is a towering peak, leaving him at the mercy of whipping wind and pellets of hail. In the distance he can see Death Mountain and Hyrule Castle, both hidden through a sheen of milky fog. Just across the gaping canyon he can see ruins, a small sectioned off area with a tree sprouting through crumbling stone. Pulling the slate out he checks the name: Maritta Exchange Ruins.   </p><p>Link balances the spear on his bent upper arms, gripping his glider over his head, and leaps across the canyon. </p><p>High up in frigid air, he looks at the castle and the volcanic mountain; one a natural sort of danger, the other an intentional evil.  </p><p>It takes him a long while to land. Link’s arms grow weak, blood dripping off the back of his left boot, falling to the ground far below him. A wisping trail of violet still spills from the sword as he glides.   </p><p>Hitting the rocky ground, he buckles to his knees. The spear clatters beside him. His glider follows. On his hands and knees Link reaches out for both, tucks them away, and then climbs to his feet.   </p><p>No scathing remark comes from the demon, even though Ghirahim had always had something to say when Link fell before.  </p><p>He feels sick at the idea of Ghirahim blissed out on blood behind him. Is it hurting him? Is there such a thing as overdoing it?    </p><p>The Maritta Exchange Ruins are made of a few crumbling stone walls, discarded wagons, and old metal boxes. All of it is washed out and grey. But that single spiraling tree erupts from the very center, its leaves the pale green of sun-bleached grass even through the fog and under a clouded sky.   </p><p>Inside there’s a single moblin, lumbering around with a long spear, and a few yards northeast of that is a bokoblin, a rusted longsword in its claws. </p><p>Link’s vision blurs. He needs to sneak by them.  </p><p>Stumbling a bit, he starts walking, hands passing over ancient stone as he makes his way through the ruins.  </p><p>Link hears something behind him just as he’s made it the whole way through.</p><p>The moblin had followed him. How hadn’t he heard it coming?  </p><p>Its giant head is faced downward, horn pointing towards him, looking at something on the grass. Link follows the line of its gaze.  </p><p>Blood. He’s leaving a trail. The calamity leaking behind him probably doesn’t help, either. How had he not realized…   </p><p>A piercing wind blows through him. Link drinks two of the elixirs he’d made, wiping his mouth clean and pulling his spear out. Alone on the teetering plains between Hyrule Ridge and Tagara Canyon, he faces the moblin quietly. The spear in his hands moves too slow; his feet won’t stay planted; his lungs feel full of water.   </p><p>“It’s okay,” he says to himself, twisting his left arm out to jab at the moblin’s abdomen. The beast is slow so he meets his mark. “It’s okay. Okay.” He flips himself around to dodge the monster’s spear as it seeks his side – but he trips. A stone spearhead cuts him across the arm.   </p><p>Link stumbles, grabbing the new injury.</p><p>“Okay,” he says again, swaying on his feet to face the monster again. Why aren’t the elixirs working? Maybe they are, he realizes as his eyes lose focus, and this is just the result.   </p><p>“I wish you’d talk,” he says into the foggy air, grinding his teeth and slicing the moblin through the gut this time, killing it with a wet noise. “You stupid…”    </p><p>Link continues east across the north of Hyrule. His mouth stays pressed into a severe line. His shoulders stay squared. His knees, weak with wear and blood loss, stay staggering. But he keeps walking, focused on his target; the Akkala tech lab, all the way east, all the way on the other side of Hyrule.   </p><p>He’s going to have to stop bleeding eventually.  </p><p>A stable comes into view after the ruins are well behind him. The Seneree Stable, the slate tells him when he pulls it out to look. There are a lot of Hylians around and a few Rito, gathered by the fire, inside the tent, or mulling around the area. The whole scene looks like a mirage to him. Floating in and out of existence.   </p><p>Link barely takes two steps before he keels over like a chopped tree. He realizes he’s passing out as the dewy grass rushes up to meet his face.</p><p>Footsteps, Hylian like his own and the talons of Rito, rush towards him. It’s the very last thing he hears. He’s pretty sure the sound of his name in his own head isn’t actually Ghirahim, just his heart wishing it was.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
“What <em>is</em> that thing?”</p><p>“That’s… That’s the calamity, right? I’ve never…”  </p><p>“What do we do?”</p><p>“Patch him up, first. Get some water; we’ll deal with the sword once he's not bleeding out all over the grass.”  </p><p>In his unconscious mind Link is standing on a black cliff, under a starless sky, an impossible void between him and the unseen moon.   </p><p>“Ouch!” </p><p>An unfamiliar voice shakes the image apart.  </p><p>“What happened?” </p><p>“It burned me!”  </p><p> “Well…”</p><p>
  <em>... unhand … WAKE UP… </em>
</p><p>Even though it’s hollow and empty and echoing, Link’s still happy to hear Ghirahim’s voice. He smiles, his current situation forgotten for a brief moment.   </p><p>Then he feels warm metal lifting from his back. He frowns, eyes still closed.  </p><p>“Ow!” A female voice says. “You’re right. It burns to the touch!”  </p><p>Blue eyes snap open.  </p><p>He’s inside the stable, lying face-down on a bed, surrounded by well-meaning Hylians and Rito. </p><p>“He’s awake.” </p><p>“Young traveler, what <em>happened</em> to you?” </p><p>“Your mother must be worried sick.”  </p><p>“What is a sweet young man like you doing carrying a sword like that?”  </p><p>
  <em>… sweet… HA… </em>
</p><p>Link pushes himself up. His arms don’t shake. They must have given him something strong, unless he was out for a lot longer than it felt.  </p><p>“Slowly, now,” a Hylian man says, grabbing his arm to steady him as Link turns himself around to sit on the bed. “We tried to get that thing off you, son, but it… it’s like it won’t let us.”   </p><p>Link shakes his head, holding his temple for a moment. He opens his mouth to at least thank them – but nothing comes out. Not exactly surprised, he moves to stand.   </p><p>“Maybe you should rest,” a Rito woman says, a feathered hand on his shoulder.  </p><p>“But that sword…” </p><p>“Can <em>you</em> take it off, son?”  </p><p><em>...remove me from these belts and you will know real pain for the fir....</em>    </p><p>Link wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He should let these people help. He should get this demon blade <em>off</em> of him. He should have let the shrine cleanse it weeks ago, should have let Impa take it to Death Mountain, should have listened when Kelani told him it was cursed and when every single other person around him gave the sword a wide, wide berth.    </p><p>What’s <em>wrong</em> with him? Why doesn’t he want to let it go? It’s <em>killing</em> him. Infected with the calamity or not, intentional or not, Ghirahim tried to kill him at Kass’s house, and now he’s making no secret out of his intentions to do so eventually. So why…?    </p><p>There’s only one answer, and it twists in his gut like a coiling snake.  </p><p>“How about you give it a try?” The Rito woman says, her red feathers reaching out to pat his shoulder. “I think it’s done a number on you.”   </p><p>Link can fight it. Just like Impa said. </p><p>Peach hands wrap around a black hilt and the magic latch clicks.  </p><p>Someone ducks a head under the stable’s curtained entrance, catching Link’s eye. Sheikah guards. Impa’s. All the way from Kakariko Village.</p><p>He freezes, fingernails digging into the hilt.  </p><p>He watches the guards ask a Rito at the entrance a question, and he doesn’t wait around for anything more. Ignoring the kind people crowding around the bed, ignoring his better judgement in place of his heart, Link slips off the mattress and heads towards the tent wall.   </p><p>He yanks the heavy fabric up and climbs under it, stepping over the wooden scaffolding and back out into the world.</p><p>
  <em>...pointless… will follow… contemptible ch… </em>
</p><p>As the cold wind hits his body, Link realizes he’s not wearing anything. Looking down, he sees the Rito coat he’d bought is missing, and his naked torso is wrapped in heavy cloth, a salve underneath healing the wounds.   </p><p>“Shit.”  </p><p>
  <em>...language… you have never… </em>
</p><p>He can hear the Sheikah behind him. Chancing a look, Link spots three. Had Impa tracked him all the way out here? How? </p><p>They could probably see Vah Medoh as it perched on the cliffside all the way from Kakariko.  </p><p>Link needs to move. His wounds won’t open back up, not after all this salve, and the demon in his head…  </p><p><em>...TURN and FACE THEM or I shall make… INFURIATE ME like no other…</em>   </p><p>He runs. </p><p>The guards gain on him quickly. Violet calamity swirls around the blade, licking at Link’s skin.  </p><p>The first Sheikah catches him in seconds. Link turns in an arc, pulling the spear out to block a downward striking katana. He gets three strikes in before his hands are full of a black hilt. Growling with frustration Link rolls out of the way, the maneuver nearly impossible with the wounds on his back. He slips the blade over his shoulder again and dashes for his spear.   </p><p><em>YOU WILL WIELD ME.</em>  </p><p>“Shut up.” </p><p><em>TAKE UP MY BLADE.</em>  </p><p>“Shut up!” He roars.  </p><p>He turns to face the second Sheikah, the first rushing in from beside him, Link’s spear pointed out and ready.</p><p>
  <em>YOU WILL HOLD ME IN YOUR REPULSIVE PUNY HANDS OR I WILL END YOUR WORTHLESS LIFE. </em>
</p><p>In a flash of diamonds the sword is in his hands again and Link wants to <em>scream</em> he wants to tear himself apart as that stretching, yawning, void-like lulling eats behind his eyes–    </p><p>“Do it then!” He shouts down at the sword gripped tight in his hands. “You keep talking about it, so <em>do</em> it!”    </p><p><em>...begging… ador...</em>    </p><p>Growling from his throat, Link slips the sword over his shoulder as he spins to dodge an attack. He picks up the spear and lunges at the guard with the blunt end. He whacks her in the chest three times, <em>thud thud thud</em> like feet falling down wooden steps. She gasps without drawing breath. Her eyes roll back, passing out from well-timed asphyxiation, a tactic Link didn’t know he knew how to do.   </p><p>The second Sheikah guard comes in from his left. Link turns to meet her blade with the shaft of his spear. Her daggers cut through a few centimeters of wood. Link shucks her weapons away with a great push, glaring in concentration. The Sheikah warrior stumbles back on her feet.</p><p>Did Impa send them here to <em>kill</em> him? She wouldn't go that far, right? It wouldn’t make any sense.  </p><p>But maybe… if Ghirahim really is tainting his spirit... maybe she doesn’t have a reason to keep Link alive.   </p><p>
  <em>I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR OBSTINATE NATURE, BOY. </em>
</p><p>He turns just in time to see the third guard rushing in, sword held over his head ready to cleave him in half. </p><p><em>MY LIMIT HAS BEEN REACHED.</em>  </p><p>Link feels warmth leave his back and sees diamonds forming around his held-up hands groping a wooden spear and his heart feels like it flicks up into the sky forgotten in the grey overhanging clouds, forgotten for all of time, forgotten completely.   </p><p><em>No</em>, he begs in his head, his attack already in motion. “Ghirah–”    </p><p>It doesn’t matter. All the pleading in the world wouldn’t matter, the demon’s intent doesn’t matter, pulling him out of golden roses or the way he’d brought Link in close all those weeks ago; none of it mattered.    </p><p>Ghirahim’s sword appears in his hands, blocking an impossibly strong strike. The moment the silver steel of the Sheikah's daggers meets the dark strangeness of the demon’s blade Link hears it and he sees it and worst of all he feels it.   </p><p>Ghirahim's sword, from the tip of glimmering dark steel to the red gem and black hilt, shatters in his hands like glass.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We're buying our first house and now I have carpal tunnel (ghiralink gave me carpal tunnel of course they did), so I will see you in a month! I've got the next one written so I'll be back for sure, I just... need a break.</p><p>Thank you for reading! And a huge thanks for commenting :') </p><p>You can find me on tumblr if you like: <a href="https://miasunri.tumblr.com/">Mia</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Lost Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hii! We're moved in, mostly, and my wrists are fine, mostly. Thank you for your patience :') here we go!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Empty hands reflect in blue eyes, the image repeated in each glassy orb. Faint specks of black light fall through his fingers, remnants of whatever magic had held the blade together. They vanish like sparks from a fire before they hit the grassy ground.</p><p>Lips part soundlessly, wind blows weakly, and if there are any thoughts in his head they fold in on themselves and shrivel up to a witless, dry death.</p><p>Link grips his hand into fists. He snaps his head up, eye to eye with the Sheikah guard. She looks stunned, searching the man in front of her for that sword or the spear that he’d had before. “Where…” she starts. But Link doesn’t hear her. The only thing he hears is the great wide nothing in his head and the pulse of his heart against empty hands, beating too behind his eyes. It builds and builds until his face twists into some expression he’s never made, a splintering one that cuts deeper than the crack through black steel had.</p><p>Link lunges at the Sheikah warrior. Bare hands search for her throat. A sound tears out of him. A ragged, gnarled shout he doesn’t recognize as his own voice. His eyes are blared open, red veins pulsing through white wet flesh and trapped in some sightless, burning glare. </p><p>He lands on top of the Sheikah, his knees digging deep into her torso and his fingernails scraping the nape of her neck– </p><p>Fear spikes in dark eyes under him. Her pupils, shrunken as if dried, search his back and forth. Link feels a rush of his own fear. He’s staring another person in the face, staring another <em>life</em> in the face. His hands go slack like all the muscle had slipped out of him. His shoulders shake. His whole body seems to fall out of time itself, forced away by his own horror. </p><p>What is he <em>doing?</em> </p><p>The Sheikah shoves him off harshly. Link lets himself hit the ground hard on one shoulder, his limbs as malleable as water. His arms and legs slap against the grass. He lands facing skyward, wounds pressed down into the earth, panting even though he shouldn’t be breathless at all. </p><p>He hears her heavy footsteps on the grass, probably looking around to make sure the sword’s really gone. It shattered right in front of her, just like it had for him. </p><p>The Sheikah asks him something, but Link doesn’t hear it. She leaves after a minute. She leaves him there, splayed out on his back, chest heaving after whatever adrenaline had taken him over. </p><p>Bright panic curls up his neck. Link stares at the grey sky, swallowing it down. Sweat rolls into the corners of his eyes, stinging. He doesn't move. He’s afraid to move. What’s his body going to do if he tries? And if he moves, if he turns his head and looks… Maybe if he stays here, staring up at a yawning grey sky forever, staring blankly, it won't be real. </p><p>He shattered. How could he shatter? If he was Ganon’s sword, if he was so strong and foreboding, if he was some ancient demonic blade… if he was just so <em>much</em>… </p><p>How?</p><p>No, he can’t be, he <em>didn’t;</em> Link would sit up and turn around the that black slash of steel would be lying in the grass and he’d be nagged at for dropping him and Ghirahim would cover him in a waterfall of diamonds then he’d be close and…</p><p>...cold steel cutting into his torso, slicing bone while a sick silent shout rakes out of him…</p><p>He can’t be gone.</p><p>Link holds a hand up between the grey sky and himself, staring at changed callouses.</p><p>He’ll sit up and Ghirahim will be right there—</p><p>
  <em> We are not for each other.</em>
</p><p>—just like it feels like he should be, at his back, in his hands, sonorous voice floating between his ears</p><p>empty feeling filling his heart, cold steel opening him up to the world,</p><p>Careful fingers unfolding him like a—</p><p>
  <em> What has happened to you? </em>
</p><p>Link throws his arm over his eyes, blocking out familiar grey, and he just tries to breathe.</p><p>Ghirahim wanted to <em>kill</em> him.</p><p>The sword had tainted his spirit, Link is sure of it, what else could that feeling in his veins be? Why else would he snap like that and lunge at the Sheikah? He’d wanted to strangle her with his bare hands. He’s never wanted to hurt someone like that before.</p><p>It isn’t who he is.</p><p>That burning power that roots through his veins, calling him, asking to be let all the way into his heart – how can something so dark feel so good?</p><p>
  <em> Any affinity you feel for this blade is a trick. The demon inside has beguiled you.</em>
</p><p>He really had, Link thinks through a sullen haze, hot tears soaking his bare arm as he hides his face from the sky.</p><p>
  <em> Find that light inside your soul and resist this deranged beast.</em>
</p><p>Link stands up eventually. Alone in the clearing east of the Serene Stable, he staggers to his feet, feeling physically light in a way he hasn’t in weeks. The ease on his muscles makes him trip. It’s so much easier to walk. It's so much easier to move without him.</p><p>West of him is a barren rocky hill – Salari Hillhe thinks – there’d be some cover there. Everything else is an open field from the ruins way past the stable. Link can see the castle, infected with Ganon’s calamity, and Death Mountain beside it, a spire of red hot rock spearing to a grey sky. Beside that, although he can’t see it over the distant hills, is the Lost Woods.</p><p>Link heads west away from all of it.</p><p>Even though it’s easier to walk each step drags, his knees brittle. Alone climbing a quiet rocky hill he doesn’t feel real. The grey clouds grow darker as night washes over Hyrule, the wind sweeping across distant grass, and all the empty space around him makes it feel like a dream. </p><p>He’d looked for something, hadn’t he? Hands gripping blades of grass for one of steel, for a single shard, the gem, anything, but his fingers felt only frail grass and dark wistful wind.</p><p>Once up the barren hill, he finds a small nook of rocks and three trees, a pool of water beside them. Wind sweeps clouds away and the early-evening stars of Hyrule unveil above him, a great expanse of meaningless light, a sight-drowning show that meets his eyes but not his soul, not now, not while he feels so detached.</p><p>Automatic motion pulls bundles of wood from the slate and muscle memory lights it; not a smile on a pale face as moonlight takes over, meeting firelight; not a sound, not a single thought, not yet, not yet. He sits down in front of reaching flames on the hard rocky hill, encased in the few trees and high bushes, hardly any wind seeping through, and Link feels out of time.</p><p>The fire is tall. He doesn't remember lighting it. His back is freezing.</p><p>Ribbons of light scrape over his cheeks, entrenched lines of exhaustion highlighted to their darkest depths.</p><p>Link closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of fire and stone.</p><p>He doesn’t feel real. None of this does. If he could do anything, he’d go back to the start and try again; he’d tell Ghirahim what the Blights really were; is that what broke him? Had fighting Ganon been too much? If Ghirahim was made for Ganon to use, maybe…</p><p>A great weight slumps over him, heavier than any sword could hope to be. Link slinks to the ground, lying on his side and facing the fire. He keeps his eyes closed. Down on cold, slowly-warming stone he seems to sink into it, rooted as if rotting straight through the rock, some penetrating mold never meant to leave this hillside. His cheek presses into the hard ground. It grinds between his lower jaw and the rock, teeth pressing through the wet insides of his mouth while his hair falls over his eyes and he sinks down, down, down into the earth.</p><p>Somehow, despite everything Link hadn’t understood, it just feels like he’d lost another friend to Ganon.</p><p>Maybe they weren’t even friends. Ghirahim never seemed to want to be. Together, partners, whatever they’d been doing.</p><p>
  <em> Do you suppose I’d be prattling about in a swamp if I did?</em>
</p><p>No, no, he wanted to be there, why else would he have said yes when Link asked? At least not with Ganon, right? At least…</p><p>Deep breath, and then another, carrying warm stone and fire through his nose.</p><p>He can’t lie here forever. He has to save Zelda. She…</p><p>She’s all alone and… </p><p>How had he let someone matter more than her? He’d risked her life and all of Hyrule for someone he didn’t know. Link presses one of his hands into the flat stone under him. The new callouses from a thicker hilt feel strange. What if his soul was ruined? What if carrying a demon sword around had ruined him for good and he <em>couldn’t</em> beat Ganon now?</p><p>
  <em> You already know what to do. What need have you for flight?</em>
</p><p>Link takes another deep breath, sucking in dust from the ground, sight still black and red through his eyelids, nothing but hot stone and snapping fire.</p><p>Why did he <em> break? </em> How could he let himself?</p><p>How could Link let it happen?</p><p>He wonders if he’s getting a fever, cold shivers and hot flashes from blood loss and leaking calamity, from two full days of both; shaking even as he sweats; firelight licking his face like a thousand scraping pinpricks; his eyes still shut and that red sheen of his lids fading into blackness.</p><p>
  <em> I imagine life in the sky is quite… repressed.</em>
</p><p>Heat of the stone below rises up like a swarm, the thickness of smokey air engulfing his lungs as he breathes in deeply this strange midnight ether, as he <em>runs</em>— the groan and creak of a stone temple and slabs of rock drifting through lava.</p><p>“Master Link…”</p><p>How could he let it happen? How could he—</p><p>Link didn’t know anything could <em>be</em> this warm.</p><p>“Master.”</p><p>Not even the sun way up above the clouds had heat like this. It’s wild to think that anything could be hotter than that great yellow mass.</p><p>Remembering colours is the hardest part…</p><p>How could Ghirahim—</p><p>Link didn’t know rock <em>could</em> melt. How can there be rivers of the stuff?</p><p>“Master Link. Are you alright?” </p><p>Fi’s voice breaks him from his thoughts, the now-familiar sound of gentle windchimes worked into words.</p><p>Link shakes his head, readjusting his cap to make sure it doesn’t fall. He really needs to get clips for it or something. Maybe next time they’re in Skyloft he’ll ask someone at the Bazaar.</p><p>“Sorry Fi,” he says. He’s standing beside a river of melted rock called ‘lava.’ He’d been shocked to learn rock could get hot enough to melt. Fi had explained it wasn’t much different than heating metal to forge a sword, which the smiths did in Skyloft, but Link still found it unbelievable. He’d never seen a volcano when his eyes had worked but now he could feel one, and the heat is unreal.</p><p>“Master,” she says with her lilting voice, “There are chains on the ground, just to your left.”</p><p>Fearing the worst Link squats down, searching with fingers until he finds them. They’re hot to the touch.</p><p>“I detect Zelda’s aura in the surrounding area,” Fi says, “I detect an especially strong reaction from that chain in your hands. I calculate the probability that Zelda was bound by it recently at 95%.”</p><p>His stomach sinks. Who had locked her up here? There was one likely answer and Link isn’t in a hurry to meet the demon again. He’d stitched up his side himself. Without any potions on hand or any fairies, he’d had no choice. It wasn’t a long cut but it was deep. He would’ve bled dry otherwise. He’s never done anything like that before – sewed his skin together. He’s not ashamed to say he’d cried. It had hurt worse than the actual wound.</p><p>“I suggest we continue with all possible speed,” Fi says, hovering somewhere near his left. She always stays on his left side, and Link wonders if it’s because he’s left handed, but he guesses it’s not important.</p><p>Nodding, he stands back up, releasing the chain.</p><p>“There is a set of stairs twenty paces to your right,” the sword spirit says, “It leads to a bridge over the lava. The way is narrow, however I surmise this is the most likely route for Zelda to have taken. There is a large dragon’s head across the bridge, which you will need to pass under; after this, I believe there is a door, though my view is obstructed by a bend in the bridge itself.”</p><p>He feels out with a boot for the rise of the first step, and then walks up the set until his final step evens out to flat ground again. The jolt to his gut at the level floor has never quite gone away, but Link’s long past used to it. He heads out across the bridge. It bends up and down. Heated swaths of air billow up from the fiery river under him. He wonders what lava looks like; is sad, just for a minute, that he’d never gotten to explore the surface while he’d been able to see.</p><p>It would’ve been impossible – he was barely thirteen when he’d gone blind – but he can’t help but feel a little like he’s missing out.</p><p>Instead Link listens; molten rolling rock, creaking caverns of liquified stone, and the groan of hot air pockets filling and exhausting. The smell is like nothing he’s ever smelled before. It’s a sharper sort of fire. There’s so <em>much</em> of it. And when he breathes in, small flecks of stone snuff up into his nostrils, making it hard to breathe at all. Skyloft has nothing like this place, the Earth Temple – and nothing like Eldin Volcano.</p><p>He misses his old life, he wishes none of this was happening, that Zelda and he were flying around carelessly again. But it’s amazing to experience so many new sounds, new smells, and new landscapes. <em>Any</em> landscapes. It's even amazing to learn to fight for his life. He's never fought like that before. It’s horrible, but amazing.</p><p>Link walks about twenty paces across the bridge, the sound of the churning lava muffled slightly around him – he must be passing under that dragon’s head Fi had mentioned. How far away is the door? He reaches into a pocket and throws a stone straight ahead of himself, listening.</p><p>He hears it hit the door, only a few feet away.</p><p>
  <em> Master–!</em>
</p><p>“Throwing rocks?” A calm yet carnal voice creeps up his spine. The stitched-up slice on his torso burns with every word. “You truly <em>are</em> a child.”</p><p>Link freezes, his blood racing back and forth like a swarm of wasps had taken up residence in his veins.</p><p>“I am not sure how you managed to miss me way up on my perch. You scurried by like the little mouse you are! But no matter.”</p><p>Slowly, Link tilts his face up, following that voice with sightless eyes. If Ghirahim doesn’t know he’s blind there’s no reason to give him that information.</p><p>“Now… No, that’s not it. Hmm.”</p><p><em>Master. The demon who calls himself Ghirahim is on top of the dragon’s head. He is not armed, but I recommend </em> <em>utmost</em> <em>caution.</em></p><p>Link nods, keeping it small enough so only Fi would notice.</p><p>“This is <em>dreadfully</em> embarrassing, but I seem to be at a loss for your name.”</p><p>His words are flared and passionate but somehow, underneath it all, it’s only lifeless. It’s some sort of deathly passion. A tone like a talking corpse.</p><p>Link grips his hands into fists and fights against his own fear. “Bad memory, huh?” he calls up toward the demon. </p><p>“Ha!” Ghirahim’s single laugh is as shrill and dry as decaying leaves. “If you think you’re in a place to jest, you are even more witless than I had originally thought. Your <em>name</em> matters little. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit… frustrated, and I merely need someone to vent to.”</p><p>“Vent all you want,” Link returns, his heart climbing up into his mouth. He stamps it back down to keep it from betraying the confidence in his voice. “I’m going through that door.”</p><p>
  <em> Master Link, I advise against antagonizing this spirit.</em>
</p><p>He ignores his sword and the demon. <em>Zelda</em> is in that room. He’s been chasing her for weeks and nothing is going to stop him from rescuing her, least of all some deranged monster from the Underworld. If he’s going to attack he’ll attack. Link’s not waiting around and listening to him monologue about it.</p><p>Soft feet hit the stone floor behind him.</p><p>“You are trying your luck, boy,” Ghirahim says.</p><p>A wave of dark power rocks Link on his feet. It unfurls between his eyes, pounding against the sockets of his skull. But he holds his ground. The door is just a few steps away. A few steps and he’ll find her.</p><p>“Do <em>not</em> suppose you can ignore me.”</p><p>He’s just got one hand on the door, feeling for the familiar press of the puzzle’s lock, when cold fingers wrap around his shoulder. Link is spun around violently. His eyes snap closed, pain from his wounded side forcing the reaction.</p><p>Ghirahim is so <em>cold.</em> How can anything alive be that cold? It feels like roots of pure ice are sunk into his shoulder where that hand is. They twist and push through his body, twining around his bones in coils, freezing him from the inside out.</p><p>Something hard pokes into Link’s side, straight into the sloppy mess of stitches. He groans, unable to help it, bending to pinch that touch away.</p><p>“I’m afraid I lost my composure last time,” the demon hisses as that sharp pain sneaks between the thread tying the fissure together. “Though you have healed up nicely, I suppose. For a mortal.”</p><p>Link pushes the demon’s arm away with a downward elbow. He takes a step back, meeting the door behind him with a crack of his skull.</p><p>Ghirahim laughs lowly.</p><p>The sound of chimes echoes out. Link knows what that noise means now, Fi had explained to him: Ghirahim is teleporting himself away in a cloud of diamonds. But the echoing catacombs around them make it impossible to tell where he disappears to. Link tenses as he listens, his hand reaching for Fi. If Ghirahim wants a fight he’ll give him one. He’s had time to practice since their last encounter.</p><p>He takes a few cautious steps away from the door, not wanting to be trapped with it behind him.</p><p><em>Master</em>, her voice cuts urgently through his head, <em>He is behind you!</em></p><p>But Link had already heard the clink of magic.</p><p>“Do you know <em>anything</em> of this world you stand on?” Ghirahim’s death-crawl voice is close. Way too close. “Likely not,” the demon says. “Withheld to the point of ignorance—”</p><p>Link growls from the back of his throat, cutting him off. He turns around with a shout, slicing an arc with his sword, but meets nothing but air. A trickling laugh tells him Ghirahim is still nearby. Link tilts his head upward and glares – hopefully in the right direction.</p><p>Ghirahim laughs again, a little to his front-left.</p><p>Link shifts his face to meet the sound. “I’m not here for you,” he says, eyebrows pulled down to their corners.</p><p>The crawling lilt of a demonic voice whispers back, “Are you certain?” His voice comes from everywhere, no longer directly in front of him.</p><p>Link turns his head back and forth and strains to hear.</p><p>“There is no shame in seeking my attentions, Link.”</p><p>“I’m not here for you!” He says again, this time louder, curling his hand around the hilt of his sword.</p><p>“Oh don’t fret, little hero…”</p><p>Hands coil around both of his shoulders suddenly. The fingers that grip him might as well be icicles. Ghirahim is behind him again, though he hadn’t heard him move this time. Something hard hits his jaw as Link turns his head – an earring maybe, a sharp one.</p><p>“It is understandable, of course. I imagine life in the sky is a bit...” A broad chest meets his back and Link tenses, going absolutely still. Ghirahim is tall. The breath that beats down against his ear and neck is hotter than the dry, scorched air of this volcano. His voice is different. Almost warm. Link feels it ghost across his skin, forcing his flesh into raised bumps. “...<em> repressed.”</em></p><p>That single word sinks into him. Link yanks to break free, both of it and the iron grip on his shoulders, but it’s all impossibly tight.</p><p>Ghirahim’s dark rumbling laughter floats straight into his ear.</p><p>He’s released suddenly; but the frigid impressions of his hands stay. A definite clinking noise rings out.</p><p>Sharp, tiny sparks of pain prick at the tips of Link's long ears, at his cheeks, his nose and eyes and throat. He bats them away like a swarm of bugs.</p><p>“How <em>generous</em> of the goddess to give me such an adorable toy to bide my time…” Another chime resonates through the temple. “But I suppose it won’t do to tease you all afternoon,” the demon says, his voice coming from one direction and then the next. “You’re here for your little maiden. I know.”</p><p>Link turns his head back and forth, trying to seek him out.</p><p>The sound of chimes rings out again. When Ghirahim continues this time, his voice comes from up high. Back on the dragon’s head, then.</p><p>Link stands his ground but finds his knees weak. It doesn’t matter, none of it, he’ll tear him down and save Zelda, even if he’s afraid.</p><p>“When I heard my underlings had her – oh, I cannot express to you my euphoria… I was positively flustered.” That lifeless tone is back now; passion without any heart, a sound as empty as stagnant air. Dark waves of magic resound through the temple towards him as that voice tightens with shrillness. “Yet that agent of the Goddess… She had once again… That goddess-serving DOG escaped with the GIRL! I MUST have the spirit maiden to resurrect my Master! I MUST HAVE HER!”</p><p>He’s seething. He’s practically <em>hissing</em>, his words unhinged and his raw power quivering through the fiery air. Despite all of that fury it still sounds lifeless.</p><p>There’s something deeply wrong with this demon.</p><p><em>Well he’s a demon,</em> he thinks. <em>Of course there’s something wrong with him.</em></p><p>“...I fear I must apologize again,” Ghirahim says without sounding sorry, “I got a little carried away.” There’s another ring of diamonds and then Link has to swivel his head to the left, following the sound of his voice. “You see, I’ve got all this pent up anger inside me and as it turns out…” Another ring of diamonds and then Link’s looking right, trying to hear for the faint sound of the demon’s reappearance. “...your agony offers me <em>quite</em> a release.”</p><p>Link reaches back for Fi, unsheathing the Goddess Sword with a glare.</p><p>“Yet I refuse to overdo it this time. I will try my <em>very best</em> not to. There is something about you, Skychild, that makes me see red.”</p><p>Link hears the snap of his fingers and then the sound of chimes, darker and louder than Fi’s.</p><p>“It would be unbefitting of me to fight you as you are, and I have elsewhere to be besides,” that deathly voice says, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once, “Enjoy the last moments of your pointless life. You are about to discover how all these smoldering rocks feel,” Ghirahim finishes with a growling hiss, the sound as searing as the steam all through this volcano.</p><p>
  <em> He is gone, Master. We—</em>
</p><p>Link hears a great shuddering of rock. A sudden impact shakes the bridge under his feet, and then Fi explains the rest. A giant magma-monster, who Fi informed him is named Scaldera, had been called out to kill him.</p><p>It’s not an easy fight – the beast moves quickly, fire licking up Link’s legs and arms and shoulders as he tries desperately to line himself up to throw bombs into its mouth. He remembers minutes ago when he thought exploring this place was fun, but soaked in fire he takes it all back. Ghirahim and that Imprisoned monster he’s trying to resurrect had taken Link’s life from him. There was nothing fun about it.</p><p>The Scaldera dies after a fifth round of bombs. Link feels relatively cooler air wash over him as the beast falls into the lava and melts away.</p><p>He’s panting, scorched skin bleeding to the second-degree up his hands and arms; his cap had fallen on the floor somewhere, forgotten for now.</p><p>“Master Link…”</p><p>He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. He’s okay, he’s okay, it doesn’t matter, the skin, the blood, the stitches coming undone on his side, <em>none</em> of it matters. That thing is dead and Ghirahim is gone and he’s going to find Zelda. He’ll find her and carry her all the way home.</p><p>Link holds Fi out with red and black fingers and says, “Where’s the door.”</p><p>“Sixteen paces to your right.”</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
“Link!”</p><p>He hears her voice like the clearest call of morning birds, he hears her like he’s heard her everyday of his life. Link feels his mouth tug up into an open smile and he starts to run. He hears her familiar footsteps doing the same – but something stops her.</p><p>“You cannot go to him, your Grace.”</p><p>Link meets the Goddess’s guardian for the first time on the other side of that door. She is unimpressed with him, broken and bleeding as he is. He’s told to become stronger to be of any use. He’s told to conquer all the trials before him. Zelda is gone before he knows it. There’s nothing left in him, just for a moment there’s nothing at all.</p><p>
  <em> I… I have to go. I’m sorry, Link. </em>
</p><p>His blood-soaked clothes stick to him and he can still feel the cold crawl of fingers over his shoulders.</p><p>
  <em> Link, I have to go. I’m sorry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Where? Where do you have to go? Why are you always gone?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Link, you have to go.</em>
</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>
  <em> You have to— </em>
</p><p>“Where?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The forest, Link. Go!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Cold air sucks through his lungs and his eyes snap open, open to light and colour that stings even in the darkness. The fire he’d started is nothing but embers, their tempered glow sending out hardly any warmth. He takes deep breaths. He tries to find himself, feels the cold ground along his side, feels the winter-wind falling from the Tabantha Region down to him here, hiding in the rocks of Salari Hill.</p><p>Link had been somewhere else again. He’d lived a memory, or a dream, or—</p><p>Ghirahim had…</p><p>“Zelda,” he whispers, sitting up straight, his hair falling over his shoulders. Where had the tie gone? Lost in a fight, probably.</p><p>There’s no reply. Of course there isn’t. There’s only the wind and the crackling sound of cooling embers.</p><p>That’s the second one. Whatever they are. They’re not just dreams, not if he’s had two and they felt so real. Ghirahim hadn’t tried to cut him open this time – not personally anyway – but he’d been ruthless and cold. He’d had that same empty feeling as before, the same one from Kass’s house.</p><p>They must be a warning.</p><p>Link runs a hand through his hair, tugging it all over his head, and stares blankly at the dead fire.</p><p>Hylia must be warning him.</p><p>She’s been trying to this whole time.</p><p>That fiery power Ghirahim sends to his blood, the fact that Link had leapt at that Sheikah with his bare hands, some feral feeling taking him over…</p><p>
  <em> Only once you have conquered these trials will you be of use to Zelda. No sooner.</em>
</p><p>He’ll complete more shrines. He’ll <em>pray</em> more. He won't cart around a demon sword; what if it’s ruined him? What if he can never go back to normal? What if he’d let Ghirahim… what if this is what Ganon wanted? What if Link had doomed all of Hyrule by selfishly following his heart?</p><p>He should go to Kakariko Village. Impa will know what to do. There’s a shrine half a kilometer back, just above the ruins he’d passed through earlier. With the demon sword gone Link can travel from there no problem.</p><p>The Monya Toma Shrine is a short walk that seems to last a lifetime. The sun is just peeking over the horizon as Link stands on the platform, soft blue and orange lights shrouding his taut face. With grim determination he steps onto the stone platform. Link pulls the slate out. The shrine flashes in recognition, magic beginning to light.</p><p><em>None of that.</em> A finger along the side of his face, firm but not painful, not at all; rests below his temple, white-gloved and singular; then one more meets it and it is almost like being held. <em>Open those eyes.</em></p><p>Link opens them, unaware he’d shut them. Mouth in a flat line he sets the destination on the slate to Kakariko Village. The magic lights fully, a whirring hum of energy hovering in the air.</p><p>Ghirahim had tried to kill him, he reminds himself. He’d raved like a maniac about it for the past two days, cracked or not, intentional or not.</p><p>
  <em> Your mouth is hung open yet again. What is a sword to do? Such an uncouth master.</em>
</p><p>Link’s hand hovers over the slate on the shrine’s pedestal.</p><p>
  <em> No. No, you like it when–</em>
</p><p>
  <em> SHUT UP, LINK, OR I WILL–</em>
</p><p>Was that the first time he’d used his name?</p><p>Eyebrows furrowing, the first expression in hours, Link tries to move his hand to the slate, tries to send himself away from all of this.</p><p><em>Your fingers are freezing.</em> Said unkindly but said all the same.</p><p><em> If you are going to do this, then </em>do<em> it. </em> Wrist snatched up and hand pressed fully into strange skin that was strong like steel and smooth like flesh all at once. <em>I will suffer no partiality from you.</em></p><p>Link’s hand only hovers; his palms, both the one over blue magic and the one at his side, start to sweat.</p><p>Alone in the fairy’s alcove; hands under the belts across his chest and around his shoulder; nimble fingers playing with the new fabric, the new thickness, the soft underside that still lays comfortably over his bare chest now. </p><p>
  <em> Now these are simply delightful. </em>
</p><p>Dark eyes staring down, focused so entirely that all the rough edges had vanished, all the tension gone and his angular face somehow so peaceful, just for a moment, for a flashing second, but one that he had taken in fully and keeps locked down in his heart.</p><p>
  <em> Wouldn’t you say? </em>
</p><p>Sucking back a cold breath of morning air, Link presses the flat pads of his fingers into the belts across his chest. He remembers searching the fairy’s hollow for Ghirahim’s disappearing and reappearing form. Swinging his head back and forth, listening hard for the sound of chiming diamonds and looking even harder for his darker grey skin.</p><p>He remembers the warmth of a heavy hilt in his hands, the call of it when Link lifts him up, the rare understanding between them in those moments.</p><p>
  <em> Oh how lucky a sword am I.</em>
</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
An hour later finds him standing outside of the Great Hyrule Forest, facing the dark stillness of a dense treeline. Link frowns at the vine-veiled entrance. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t understand why he can’t let this go. Ghirahim hadn’t exactly been kind. And if he wants Link dead – even if he can’t control it – Link shouldn’t be chasing after him. He has a job to do. A whole world to save. He can’t risk his own life, because that risks everyone else's.</p><p>But he's here, standing outside of the dark forest, doing just that.</p><p>Link glares down at his empty hands, mouth in a stern, silent line.</p><p>When he’d woken up in the Shrine of Resurrection he’d known he was forgetting something important, even though he couldn’t remember Zelda or Ganon or anything.</p><p>When he held Ghirahim’s sword for the first time he’d had that same urgent feeling. He’s supposed to be <em>doing</em> something.</p><p>Closing his hands into fists, Link looks back up at the forest.</p><p>They’d saved Vah Medoh together, hadn’t they? Revali is free. Link has a piece of him to take to battle, just like he’s supposed to. That red line of light is scorching through the sky, pointed right at the castle. Everything that needed to work out had worked out.</p><p>If Ghirahim <em>is</em> tainting his spirit, if Link has been beguiled by demonic magic… He’ll handle it.</p><p>Torch in hand, Link enters the din of the Lost Woods, his mouth still pressed into a thin line. A wall of fog meets his cheeks. Singsong laughter drifts through the trees. He lights the torch on one of the ever-burning ones in the forest and tries to find his bearings.</p><p>He just hopes the sword is here. There’s no reason he would be, but Link can’t think of anywhere else to look, and a nagging itch at the back of his head brought his feet here. And Ghirahim has to be <em>somewhere</em>. Something made for Calamity Ganon can’t be wiped away that easily. The demon sword is a lot of things but <em>none</em> of them are weak.</p><p>Again that eerie, squeaking laughter floats through the air. Link changes course, listening more than looking, searching for the right path.</p><p>
  <em> Do you yet misunderstand? We are not for each other.</em>
</p><p>He frowns at the memory of those words, and other times the demon had said something similar. Who <em>cares</em> what they’re meant for? Link doesn’t want to be told what to do, who to like, or how to feel. He'll fix what he failed at a hundred years ago, be whatever Hylia and Hyrule need him to be, but he’s also just <em>himself.</em> </p><p>Whoever that is now.</p><p>Rounding a group of dark, fog-swamped trees, Link can just see the tips of brighter ones, and he can hear the gentle sound of koroks talking. He’s close. Laughter, now quiet, sounds from his left and he veers right.</p><p>It had been the same for Ghirahim, hadn't it? He’d left Ganon even though he wasn’t supposed to. But maybe it wasn’t that easy. Maybe the calamity made it impossible for him to know what he wanted. He’d been out of his mind in Kass’s house. He hadn’t remembered anything after he snapped out of it. <em>Something</em> had taken over. If it wasn’t the calamity then it was something else, because the demon that sat on Link’s chest that night and cut his throat hadn’t been the same one he’d carried on his back for weeks.</p><p>It <em>did</em> matter, Link thinks to himself with a darkening frown, mad that he’d ever told himself it didn’t. It mattered that Ghirahim couldn’t control it.</p><p>He enters the Koroks Forest after an hour or so, and for the first time he sees the master sword. It’s right in front of the entrance. How had he missed it before?</p><p>Link heads right and continues on. His intended sword is safe here with the Koroks. If he ever needs it he knows now where to find it.</p><p>If he’s going to do this – insist on carrying a cursed sword around on his back – he needs to be sure his heart can take it. He needs more spirit orbs, he needs…</p><p>Later. Link will handle it, but later. One thing at a time.</p><p>The woods leading to that obsidian slab are the same: every tree is too tall and has too many branches, a web-like cluster of twigs and curled, passionate overgrowth. The wall of thorns is still there. He climbs it with ease, barely feels the cuts, his heartbeat burning through his chest; <em>be here</em>, he prays silently while he climbs, <em>be here be here. You were here before. Let me find you.</em></p><p>He reaches to the top and opens his eyes and searches through shaking, overworn nerves.</p><p>The black obsidian is still there, surrounded first by black and red thorns and then by diamond-petaled golden roses.</p><p>It’s empty. Nothing pierced through it. Nothing—</p><p>A flood of water replaces his heart and sends Link falling down the front of the thorn wall. He runs through harsh thorns and then gentle roses and he climbs up the obsidian to feel its emptiness with his hands but what his eyes had seen was true.</p><p>The sword isn’t here.</p><p>Where else? Where else could he look? Would Ghirahim have ended up back with Ganon, in the castle? But why would he have been in this forest at all if that was the case. He wishes Zelda were here. She would know, she always knew about magic.</p><p>As if on queue, he hears a chime. It’s a single singing bright noise. It’s softer than he’s used to, more like a windchime. But Link knows what it means.</p><p>
  <em>Wait.</em>
</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
For three whole days, nothing happens.</p><p>His wounds have time to heal, which Link is grateful for. He re-sews the stitches over the claw marks on his back, doing a sub-par job because of where they are, and cleans up the scrapes he’d gotten from Vah Medoh. With no elixirs and no ingredients to make any, he’s still roughed up, but it’s nice to rest. The cut along his throat from a black saber, however, heals itself fully.</p><p>Lighting a fire away from the black rock, Link even manages to make himself a few good meals. He tries cooking with the golden roses around him, grinding the petals into a fine spice. They taste bitter. It makes him huff wryly, even through the unease of waiting. Of <em>course</em> they’re bitter.</p><p>By the end of the third day he starts to feel restless. Maybe he’d imagined that chime. It had been faint. He’d been exhausted. And what could he be waiting for? Ghirahim’s not going to find him here. He knows even less about Hyrule’s topography than Link does.</p><p>Yet as he stands up to leave, never able to be idle, that chime rings out again. Glassy and willowy.</p><p>
  <em> Wait.</em>
</p><p>As night falls over the overgrown forest Link sits down in the bed of golden roses, meaning to sleep. But he just sits for a minute instead. His arms rest over his bent knees and he stares blankly at that black obsidian. Motes of pollen glide through the air, stuck in beams of frosty moonlight.</p><p>Maybe he really should go. If Ghirahim is anywhere at all, it isn’t here. Three days of waiting is too many. Link wants to go <em>find</em> him. He can always come back here later.</p><p>He tenses suddenly, some sixth sense ticking to alert. A blond head raises high and long ears twitch to listen.</p><p>The air around him feels… off. The colour is wrong.</p><p>Red sparks blink into existence like burning fireflies, orbs of warmth diffusing throughout the clearing.</p><p>Slowly, every single diamond-shaped petal is bathed in light like a blanket of blood had been laid out over the flowerbed.</p><p>
  <em> Link... </em>
</p><p>He jumps at the sudden sound of Zelda’s voice. The smell of wildflowers comes with it, as always, and he takes a slow breath; memories sit stubbornly at the edge of his mind, the smell familiar.</p><p>It starts slowly, just like it had the first time. Link stares at the forest around him, watching the air turn more and more red. When he looks up through the spaces between the trees he can see a crimson sky. A monstrous red moon leers between ferning leaves.</p><p>
  <em> Link… Be on your guard once more. By the blood moon’s glow, the aimless spirits of monsters that were slain in the name of the light return to flesh.  </em>
</p><p>The red sparks around him grow larger. Link reaches out to touch them, but sucks back a breath as he's burned. He'd been inside during his first blood moon. He’d never seen one up close.</p><p>
  <em> This includes your new–</em>
</p><p>Her voice cuts off as is strangled.</p><p>“Zelda?” He stands up, even though he knows he can’t reach her. “Zel–”</p><p><em> You must be on your guard. </em> Her voice resumes its normal course. She had said the exact same words last time. <em>Ganon’s underlings will be twice as strong during these moons.</em></p><p>“What’s…”</p><p>
  <em> Be safe, my dear friend. </em>
</p><p>Link knows she’s gone after that. He feels her leave him, the smell of wildflowers disappearing.</p><p>The air is damp with magic even Link can tell is vile. It's suffocating, as if wet smoke had filled the air. Red lights swirl and the red moon rises further overhead, dying the overgrown forest in maroons and burgundies.</p><p>A brightness flickers like a candle in the corner of his eye. Link turns his head. And even though he’s caught on by now, he can’t help it when his lips part with wonder.</p><p>It had never crossed his mind before; Link doesn’t see him like that. But Ghirahim isn’t just a sword. He’s a monster, too. </p><p>One of Ganon’s.</p><p>He watches in silence as ruby-red lights glimmer over obsidian, their colour reminiscent of a gem. The lights converge in one single spot. Gradually they form the familiar outline of a ridged sword, and Link scrambles onto his feet.</p><p>There’s a husked <em>wshh!</em> of sound, like air forced through a too-small space, and then Ghirahim is there. Just there. A black slash of steel replacing red light. A harrowing sword sunk in dark obsidian like the first time Link had found him. </p><p>Moving fast enough to make his head spin he runs over to the slab and starts climbing. His fingers feel like they’re still burned by that scaldera monster but he knows that can’t be true. </p><p>Link grabs at a black hilt as he pulls himself up the rock, standing on its wide surface. He wraps both hands around the hilt, his heart pounding.</p><p>“Gh—”</p><p>Vicious fire surges up his arms, sending black lines scorching through his veins. It hurts like water that’s just too-hot. It hurts like screaming his lungs dry. It hurts, but it feels so good he never wants it to stop, and Link pulls with everything he has.</p><p>With a grunt he frees the sword, overshooting it like the first time and falling backward off the obsidian onto that soft bed of golden, diamond-petaled roses.</p><p>Ghirahim’s blade lands beside him this time, instead of slamming into his face. It lands with a puff of rose petals. Its strange black steel reflects a red moon in eerie perfection.</p><p>Link feels himself smiling. Amidst black and red jagged thorns, the endless golden petals, this chaotic overflowing forest; under the ominous light of an oppressive blood-coloured moon; alone with a sword blacker than the void between stars… In the middle of all of this strange lilting darkness, he smiles.</p><p>Red light sweeps across his cheeks, Ganon’s power coursing out to infect Hyrule, and Link can’t explain it but none of it seems to reach him tucked into this alcove. All these thorns keep it at bay.</p><p>“Ghirahim?”</p><p>He's met with silence.</p><p>Lying on his back, his neck craned sideways to see, Link takes in the familiar blunt darkness of a black sword. He lets it fill his eyes until staring starts to hurt.</p><p>The gem is there, like always, but his mouth drops open as he stares. Link rolls onto his side, his vision straining, his fingers reaching.</p><p>It’s <em>blue</em>. The same blue as his earring, an identical diamond sitting proudly in the middle of his crossguard. And Ghirahim’s sword is smaller. Not shorter, but more narrow. A claymore made for someone Link’s size. The edges are still sharp, the blade cut into more obvious diamond-shaped arches, and the crossguard still flared. It’s no less foreboding. But when Link picks the sword up, careful to only hold the hilt, it’s lighter.</p><p>He had never minded the weight, but it’ll be easier to swing like this.</p><p>Link wonders how it happened. He wonders <em>why</em> it happened.</p><p>“Ghirahim?” he tries again.</p><p>More silence meets his ears. But holding the hilt tight with both hands, holding it across his lap, Link can feel it.</p><p>The starry void that means he’s resting.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Lynel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Link exits the Lost Woods an hour later, reformed black sword at his back and happier than he probably should be.</p>
<p>He starts along the path that leads from the forest to the rest of Hyrule, lips pressed in a thin line. The lighter weight on his back is quietly comforting. The rattling sound of it clinking against his quiver is familiar. Link stops for a moment.</p>
<p>The air is still full of red sparks. Ganon’s calamity seeps through Hyrule like a fever; he can feel it as he stands under the blood moon, malice reaching out for everything, reaching out for him and the sword.</p>
<p>Silent, he unlatches the blade from his back and holds it up to a ruby skyline, watching red moonlight distort in the strangeness of Ghirahim’s steel. With a stoney face he holds the blade higher. Death Mountain is to his left on the horizon, its lava even redder under the altered moon, and the infected castle is to his right, violet magic twisting into the ruby sky. He lifts the sword right between these landmarks, still needing two hands. Link stares at the gem, now a brilliant blue. Since Ghirahim wears one in his ear just like it, it must be a colour he likes. But why had it changed?</p>
<p>Link sets the sword on his back again. The soft click of the magical latch puts him at ease.</p>
<p>He begins walking up the path away from the Lost Woods, his heart heavy and light all at once. As happy as he is for the familiar weight on his back, Link trusts Ghirahim even less now.</p>
<p>He needs to pray. And not at just any Goddess Statue. The Temple of Time is at least a seven-day hike south, but he needs to be sure; he needs to know if his spirit’s been ruined somehow.</p>
<p>No matter whatever else – the strange visions, the fact that Ghirahim’s hilt feels familiar, how he makes Link laugh – none of it can come before his task. He has to save Zelda, and all of Hyrule. Nothing can matter more than that.</p>
<p>If Ghirahim really is tainting his soul, intentional or not, Link will have to tell him to leave.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Even though Link has walked through Hyrule Field more than a dozen times by now, it never gets any less pretty. In early-morning corals and yellows the hills shimmer as if rolling like waves. Bugs flit back and forth, a few landing on his neck and humming in his ear until he bats them away. Wildflowers of every colour sway in a gentle wind. Birds and boars and other animals fly and run around the fields at dawn, their calls reaching across the endless sheets of grass.</p>
<p>Blue eyes take all of it in as if swallowing an entire ocean’s worth. Without anything to focus on, his attention divides into everything, and Link is completely distracted. In moments like this he isn’t the Hero of Hyrule or Zelda’s Knight. He isn't anything at all. He’s just part of Hyrule’s fields and grass and trees.</p>
<p>There’s a rock he has no hope of noticing. His boot jams under it and he trips, falling forward, the still-considerable sword at his back adding to the <em>smack</em> as his face hits the grass.</p>
<p>But when he pushes himself up his blue eyes are full of the world around him, the yawning landscape reflecting in glassy irises. As if he hadn’t fallen at all, he gets back up and keeps walking.</p>
<p>After another hour or so, Link heads into the northeast end of Hyrule Field, toward the Bottomless Swamp. He’d walked around the swamp a dozen times, but never through it. It shouldn’t be too bad.</p>
<p>It’s been more than a week since he’d left the Lost Woods, and still the demon at his back is sleeping – or whatever Ghirahim calls it. Resting. That star-sleepy feeling unfurls over his back every so often, comforting even in its strange darkness.</p>
<p>Link has been using him to fight along the way. That seemed to wake him up the first time. So had using his own blood, but he’s a bit nervous to do that. He still remembers the moans in his head while Ghirahim had been cracked.</p>
<p>It’s not until the tenth morning of his silent trek that he hears the first whisper of that demonic voice in his head.</p>
<p>
  <em>… graceless …</em>
</p>
<p>He lowers the sword towards the ground, the bokoblin he’d been fighting now dead at his feet.</p>
<p>It’s an insult and it’s faint, but it’s his voice, Ghirahim’s <em>real</em> voice. All that dark passion, all of that bright baritone, all of it back to normal. He tugs at the belt across his bare chest, unable to smile for the moment but feeling a line of warmth thread straight through to his heart.</p>
<p>“We need to talk, when you wake up,” he says, looking at the sky.</p>
<p>
  <em> … difficult… for you…</em>
</p>
<p>Link huffs, a small smile forming finally, though it feels like it’s probably a weird one. At least no one’s around to see it right now. “Shut up and rest,” he says.</p>
<p>
  <em> … such a mouth…</em>
</p>
<p>Said mouth unfolds into a full smile and Link wipes it away with the back of his hand.</p>
<p>He stops for the night in a small gathering of trees, just along Hylia River. Link sets the sword against one tree, cooking himself dinner, slicing mushrooms and radishes, listening to the hum of the swamp just up the hill behind him. He falls asleep on the grass, cold without a shirt but the fire warms him enough.</p>
<p>When he wakes up in the morning the sword is lying out next to him, his fingers ghosting a dark hilt, and he curls in on himself with shyness. This isn’t the first time. Staring wordlessly at black steel just at his fingertips, he reminds himself of his resolve to keep his guard up.</p>
<p>He wonders again if those visions he keeps having are premonitions. Is Hylia showing him the future? Is he going to lose his eyesight and is Ghrahim going to become his enemy, sound so dead and feel so cold… Are they going to have to <em>fight</em> each other?</p>
<p><em>No</em>, he thinks, staring blankly at black steel over dewy morning grass. Link won’t let that happen. Losing his sight would be one thing, but he’ll never be Ghirahim’s enemy.</p>
<p>Standing, he takes the sword with him, and heads towards a small pond to wash his face.</p>
<p>He finds the Wahgo Katta Shrine later that morning. Determined to do better as Hylia’s chosen hero, to do better at all of this, Link heads towards the entrance. If he’s going to beat Ganon he needs to strengthen his spirit. He needs orbs, and he needs to get stronger.</p>
<p>He sets the sword down carefully. It should be okay, he thinks as he descends into the depths of Hyrule. The people at the stable hadn’t even been able to pick it up, and what were the chances a random sheikah would happen by? Either way, he’d hidden it really well in that bush.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
The radiating sun is far too bright as the demon awakens from his slumber. For a brief moment he is entirely confounded – he should not be in the sun, near this boggy swamp. They had been on the back of a flying monstrosity, its halls creaking with his Master’s raw power and the goddess’s infernal blessings. They had been fighting some abbreviation of Demise. The useless hero had neglected to inform Ghirahim they would be doing so. He had been caught wholly off guard, though he would not squander the opportunity to smite the Demon King, as traitorous a sword such a desire makes him.</p>
<p>Yet… he is beside a swamp. Why does the Hylian insist upon swamps? What is his morbid obsession with degrading wetlands? He is largely filthy, typically sleeked with sweat, and not very adept at all; oh it should be no surprise now really that Ghirahim, demon lord that he is, should wake up beside some sunken sickly <em> bog</em>.</p>
<p>He will simply have to make the boy suffer.</p>
<p>Still, he does not know how he is here, how far he is away from that village of birds, a sensation altogether disconcerting for him. Ghirahim is always aware of his surroundings. He makes a point of maintaining such control. His life would have been largely unsurvivable if he’d been as prone to distraction as the Hylian. Link is dreadfully easy to distract, unaware of half the world around him at times.</p>
<p>It is then that Ghirahim, still dragging himself from a sort of rest he had never experienced before, realizes he is alone.</p>
<p>He is <em>immediately</em> irritated. Incomprehensibly irritated. How can <em>one single man</em> be so irritating? Those guards are doubtless hunting all across this Hyrule for them, and that useless hero had gone off on his own! How many times does he require being told <em>not</em> to drop him?</p>
<p>Ghirahim attempts to reach out into that useless blond head and tell him once more.</p>
<p>Yet there is no trace of him. The sunlit oasis that makes up the whole of the Hylian’s energy is entirely absent. He is not nearby.</p>
<p>Well, it is no surprise. It was only a matter of time before the inconveniences brought about by his natural alignment became too cumbersome for the Chosen Hero, before the demon impeded his task too thoroughly. It is of little concern to him. It is not as if Ghirahim has never been on his own.</p>
<p>Full sight returns to him after a few moments, shapes appearing in the daylight. He is…</p>
<p>He is within the confines of shrubbery!</p>
<p>Rage boils deep inside the sword. Had that ingratiating whelp set him within these leaves in hopes of keeping him hidden? Was his idiocy so painfully chronic? Could he not have left Ghirahim on top of one of those towers, or even in a tree, and not mere meters from a <em>degrading</em> swamp and <em>hidden in a bush—</em></p>
<p>No. He will <em>not</em> lose his temper. Link is not his rightful master regardless. This had always been the eventual outcome of their precarious partnership. Ghirahim will seek out those hot springs he had been promised and so negligently withheld from.</p>
<p>The demon attempts to corporate himself but finds he does not have the energy.</p>
<p>What had <em>happened</em> after they had fought that sliver of Demise’s soul? He has never suffered from memory loss before. How many days had passed. What had caused the little hero to discard him? Surely he is unharmed. Surely Ghirahim is not going to seek him out merely to <em>check</em>. </p>
<p>No. </p>
<p>Enough of that. Enough of waiting. Enough of everything. The Skyloft hero is gone and while those hands and that voice are identical to the point of confusion this <em>boy</em> is someone else; Ghirahim’s loyalties have waned enough for a lifetime, lengthy as his own is. No more. He will gather himself as soon as he is able and he will head towards that volcanic mountain. Certainly his life debt is paid in full by now, and he may as well enjoy what remains of his existence.</p>
<p>Those sheikah will find him with their blue waves of magic, the likes of which would be deadly if felt, or this world will simply demand an end to him. The Goddess is none too pleased with his presence in her future Hyrule, this he is sure of. Though all he had done was <em>wait</em>. Ghirahim has no intentions of raising another demon army. Hylia would do well to relax.</p>
<p>Yet he is not meant to be here. And so he knows she will chase him out.</p>
<p>It is almost as if nothing has changed.</p>
<p>
  <em>Come on. What are you waiting for?</em>
</p>
<p>Oh exhaustion must be deranging his mind. What of all this inane speculation? Perhaps he will go to his Master and attempt to subdue him on his own, bleed that warm power dry. At any rate, he will move on. Without those burning hands at his hilt it will be easy.</p>
<p>As if the muddled thought itself had called him, Ghirahim feels the familiar grip of worn callouses.</p>
<p>The heat of ten peach fingers claims his sword. That stinging light seeps through as well, as it always does whenever he is held.</p>
<p>“You’re awake,” Link says, pulling him from the bushes much too quickly for Ghirahim’s dizzy state. With that noxious grip he vaguely recalls their brief conversation, his consciousness inexcusably weakened by what he cannot now remember. “Ghirahim?” His name – likely spoken due to his prolonged silence.</p>
<p>
  <em> Must your irritating voice be the first thing I hear every morning?</em>
</p>
<p>That open-mouthed smile, overdone and beaming, meets the wide sight of his gem. The hero makes that obnoxious happy laugh, the same as he had when he’d donned those warmer clothes in that village of birds; Rito, Ghirahim recalls.</p>
<p>The joyous expression falls away quickly – too quickly. Link is holding him up and away, staring now with focused intent. The swamp beside them is layered with that bulbous purple ooze, his Master’s ancient will radiating from it. The demon turns his attention to pale blue eyes, simply because they are the best of two horrid realities.</p>
<p>“We need to talk,” the Hylian says, his tone vacant of its prior brightness, replaced with a nuance Ghirahim does not understand. Trepidation? Nervousness? Fear? It is not quite those. “Can you come out?”</p>
<p>
  <em> Making demands of me already?</em>
</p>
<p>“Come out,” Link says, steadfast in tone. “I want to talk.”</p>
<p>
  <em> We are talking; say what you will.</em>
</p>
<p>The blond frowns at him. “Do you remember anything?”</p>
<p><em> A fiercely ironic question considering its source. </em> You <em> are the one with broken memories, are you not?</em></p>
<p>That glare grows more narrow. He had struck a nerve, something much more difficult to do with this scion. Blond eyebrows, thick and expressive, fold down to long lines.</p>
<p>
  <em> Surely there’s no cause for a face like that.</em>
</p>
<p>“You don’t, do you.”</p>
<p>Ghirahim bristles through his very soul; that voice is bordering on accusatory and he has never heard such authority from it before.</p>
<p>Link sits down on the grass, folding his legs and breathing out slowly. His brow is slick with sweat – he had been away doing something exertive. One of those infernal shrines, likely.</p>
<p>Slowly Ghirahim is layed across his lap, hilt on one bent knee and blade on the other. His diamond is left facing up, and the bright sky is blinding.</p>
<p>“Ghirahim,” the blond starts, his name for the second time. Next to them is a house-sized rock in the shape of a skull, the violet remnants of his Master, and the sickly bog that smells of hot rot under the afternoon sun. “Is there… Is there maybe something I should know?”</p>
<p>
  <em> Once more an ironic question. You have only just recalled that unsightly pigeon – the rest of your memories remain lost to your goddess’s whims. Hardly through any fault of my own.</em>
</p>
<p>“Stop,” he says, tousled blond hair swaying with a shake of his head. “Stop changing the subject.” A hand grips at Ghirahim’s hilt, the right one, coiling tight. “You…”  White square teeth bite at a full bottom lip. A useless bottom lip, for no sound calls from that mouth for a long moment, and those hands continue their coiling, as if holding on for some purpose other than to simply hold.</p>
<p>
  <em> Out with it, you insufferable—</em>
</p>
<p>“You broke,” Link says, that second word cracked in two. “And I…”</p>
<p>
  <em> What? </em>
</p>
<p>“You <em>broke</em>,” he repeats, now frowning down at the sword, “You shattered right in my hands.”</p>
<p>Ghirahim laughs, once and sharply. <em>Impossible. I do not </em> break<em>, boy. If your plan with this inane conversation was to upset me you have succeeded wholly.</em></p>
<p>“After we fought the blight, after it was dead… you were cracked.” Fingers set themselves nervously on his crossguard. Without direct contact, Link then traces them all the way down to the point of his blade. “And you… you wouldn’t stop… You don’t remember?”</p>
<p>Ghirahim is silent. In all of his life, all thousands of years of it, he has never been marred. His sword may be made of metal but the magic is ancient and powerful. He does not <em>break</em>. He has done battle with gods, he has been flung into fires, buried lost and forgotten in darker tombs than he cares to remember; he has been used to hack through solid stone by hands focused only on their intended goal, the state of his sword unconsidered.</p>
<p>He has never been so much as <em>scratched</em> during all of it.</p>
<p>“Do you…” The slow pace of the hero’s conversation is beginning to grate on him. What is the disconnect between his mind and his mouth? Why would his goddess don him with such an impediment? Surely it would be beneficial for her Chosen Hero to be able to speak fluidly. Why, even in another lifetime, even to a bastardized copy, did Hylia insistent on making it <em>difficult</em> for him? “Is it because— Is it because he <em>made</em> you? You have the calamity, I saw it… How connected are you? To Ganon.” Fingers flit along his crossguard again. Tiny pricks of searing light. “Is there something I should know? About all of it?”</p>
<p>In the haze of post-unconsciousness, mostly awake and yet soul-tired, Ghirahim’s mind races. It sifts swiftly through the past weeks, the small interactions, the subtle half-pictured gleam of blond hair in the sun, always just above his hilt while he remains perched on a sturdy back. It is barely thought of at all. Ridding himself of it entirely, Ghirahim wonders absently why his steel feels so different. Hands grab his hilt abruptly, distracting him.</p>
<p>“Is there?”</p>
<p>Perhaps a modicum of honesty is warranted. That grip around his hilt is fearful. If his charge is afraid, if Ghirahim has shown himself to be so weak as to allow him such an emotion, then he has failed as a sword.</p>
<p><em>If you grip my hilt any tighter, you useless Hylian, you will likely succeed in your prior attempts at suffocation.</em> The hand goes suddenly slack as Link gasps softly, his bare chest expanding with the action. <em>Where have your clothes gone now? I have never met someone so inept at remaining clothed.</em></p>
<p>“Stop avoiding the question.”</p>
<p>Ghirahim chimes out a sigh, letting it ring loudly inside a blond head simply to be irritating. <em>Very well</em>, he begins. <em>If it will satiate your sudden curiosity, the one you call Calamity Ganon is—</em></p>
<p>Hands at his hilt again halt his words. Both this time. Such a grip – sudden, firm, and searing with intense focus – indicates danger. The hero’s head has snapped up and away from him. Blue eyes are still, but Ghirahim knows those pointed ears are searching for the threat.</p>
<p>
  <em> What is it? </em>
</p>
<p>“... something big,” Link says, bringing the sword with him as he stands up.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
The giant rock skull in the middle of the Bottomless Bog obstructs his view, but Link can hear it just fine. Whatever is coming around the swamp, it shakes the ground under his boots, each stomp rattling small rocks from the top of the cragged bog. It starts to rattle his teeth, too.</p>
<p>Breath held, Link heads towards the center of the rocky bog. There is a small crevice between two large rocks. He slides himself inside it, sword down by his side.</p>
<p><em>Hiding?</em> The demon hisses inside his head.</p>
<p>Ignoring him, Link keeps his eyes trained down and focuses on his ears. Those lumbering, loud footsteps get closer. </p>
<p>The first thing he sees is the tip of a fat sword, its girth more than twice his size, its blade chipped and marred by battle. Next comes the hand of the beast. It’s easily large enough to crush his skull, lined with claws caked in dry blood. Its arm follows, winding with cords of muscle, and then…</p>
<p>Four legs like a horse, or a giant boar, and a long white tail come into view. The monster walks by like a thunderclap. Its mass pounds into the rocky ground of the bog. </p>
<p>Link freezes. His brain comes to a full stop. He breathes in and out, shallow and short. Still the ground under him shakes, sending dust and pebbles into his hair; still the slow-moving monster stalks its circle around the bog.</p>
<p><em>What is this?</em> The demon whispers in his head. <em>Are you still afraid? Have I not shown your hesitation to be needless? I do not like doing things twice.</em></p>
<p>Still ignoring him, Link sets the sword down, its tip in the dirt. Ghirahim grumbles at him for this, too. Link says, “Just a sec,” in a stunned sort of whisper as he pulls out the slate, squirming between the two rocks to reach it. It doesn’t always work right around the demon, though the map is generally fine. Now though it reads ‘lynel’ clearly when he holds it up to that beast’s retreating form.</p>
<p>He slips the slate on his hip again, his breathing still too-quick, too-shallow.</p>
<p>Lynel. That huge <em>thing</em> is called a lynel.</p>
<p>
  <em> Cease this display of cowardice and let us face that beast!</em>
</p>
<p>Link looks down at the black sword. Its newly-formed blade is cut clearly into three diamond shapes, each corner sharp and definite, curled and gnarled. The hilt still flares out as always. The gem is blue but still vivid and bright and swirling with what Link assumes is some sort of soul. He can picture the dark crack, can see it easily on top of Ghirahim’s sword; for a moment he’s alone on that cold stone ground in the middle of the night, rotting into the rock, hair over his eyes and his back frozen cold with emptiness…</p>
<p><em>Your hesitance wears on me, boy. Do you need to be taught once more what power you hold? I </em>will not<em> say it again. Leave this cowardly hiding place and face that beast!</em></p>
<p>Gripping the hilt, sword still pointed towards the ground as he stays flat against the rocks, Link shakes his head.</p>
<p><em>Adorable. You imagine you have a choice.</em> The gem flickers and to Link's surprise the colour changes. It turns from blue to a familiar red. <em>I wish to devour, hero, and none will stand in my way, least of all a sentimental poor swordsman afraid of some mindless monster! Have I not proven myself capable? Have I not bested every foe we have faced?</em></p>
<p>“I don’t have any gear,” Link whispers, thinking of the stable he’d left everything at. “I don’t even have a shirt.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Neglect to let the beast strike you and you will have no need for either.</em>
</p>
<p><em>I just got you back</em>, he doesn’t say, biting at the inside of his mouth and trying to think of a way out of this. Link had been nervous using Ghirahim even for weak monsters… He doesn’t want to fight this giant four-legged beast with him.</p>
<p>
  <em>Your grip is too tight. I can feel your pathetic heartbeat in your hands. Must I say it again? You hold something far more frightening than any wild beast that may cross your path. You should count yourself lucky to hold such power! Now remove yourself from this repugnant rock and give me the massacre I so desire!</em>
</p>
<p>“...No.”</p>
<p>
  <em>NO?</em>
</p>
<p>Link shakes his head.</p>
<p>
  <em>Boy… Your fear is insulting. You are an abhorrent swordsman, and I will no longer allow you to keep me, demon lord, withheld. We are facing this beast, merely to prove to you—</em>
</p>
<p>“Stop,” he says, his voice reflecting the last time he’d said that, alone in the snow, the dark fog of a winter night encasing him fully, trapping him with a mindless, bloodthirsty monster he barely recognized. “Please stop.”</p>
<p>He’s met with silence. The gem glows from familiar red to a sapphire blue. Link watches it change, the colour taking up the whole of his irises, reflecting back infinitely into their own mirrored glassiness.</p>
<p>
  <em>Would you rather us rot in this crevice together for all of time?</em>
</p>
<p>Link sets his forehead against the rock in front of him, closing his eyes. The lynel circles around the bog, passing him, only a meter away. He waits until it's gone. Tries to breathe.</p>
<p>“How…” he starts, pushing his forehead into the stone, trying to ground himself, “Are you… alright?”</p>
<p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p>
<p>“To fight. Are you… did you…” He grinds his hairline against rough stone and forces his mouth to work, wishes he could use his hands, “... rest? Enough?”</p>
<p><em>Did I… rest,</em> the demon repeats, sounding as if the words are foreign to him. And then, with all of his usual bite, he says, <em>I do not know what you are implying, hero. But I am not so weak as to require rest!</em></p>
<p>“We can go fight that,” Link says, listening to the heavy-footed pacing, the animalistic breathing, the thudding of his own heart from worry and fear and uncertainty, all rolled together in a way that makes him feel unhinged. “But only if you’re… fine.” He doesn’t think he could stand it again, shattering black steel slicing up his palms. The cuts had healed in an hour. Magic forced them to fade, like Ghirahim never existed, and that was worst of all.</p>
<p>
  <em>Only if I am… You continue to make little sense. I am Demon Lord Ghirahim, I am a SWORD, I was crafted for naught but combat! I can feel it in your hands, pure-hearted hero that you are; the thrill of anticipation, the desire for battle. Why withhold yourself? These are your nemesis’s created minions, no more than dark magic bound to a non-sentient form. Your sentimentalities need not deter you.</em>
</p>
<p>That burning, sinew-twisting power crawls up Link’s arms, pushing against him and begging for entrance. He keeps it held back. Listening to a demon’s hushed whispers slipping through his head, clouding behind his eyes, he does his best to keep it held back.</p>
<p>
  <em>Do you not find enjoyment, hero, slaying beasts with my blade? I have heard your laughter. I have felt your thrilling heart. Deny me with words all you like; your body betrays you at every instance. Even now… How tight you grip me…</em>
</p>
<p>“You won’t break,” Link says, meaning to ask it but the words fall out of him like a command.</p>
<p><em>Do you truly think me so weak? </em> Bright chimes ring out with more of that vicious energy, all of it filling his head. <em>I am insulted, Link.</em></p>
<p>He tries to fight it off but it feels so good; that mesmerizing dark power, something he’s never felt before anywhere else in Hyrule. He wants to let it in, guide it straight to his heart, especially after hearing his name.</p>
<p>But there’s too much at risk.</p>
<p>Does the demon even know he does that? Is he doing it on purpose?</p>
<p>Link takes a deep, almost tired breath, but he smiles. Small and sure.</p>
<p>
  <em>Why do we still delay? Take me to KILL that dreadful creature, boy, or I will sink my steel into something far sweeter.</em>
</p>
<p>“You’re so needy,” Link hears himself say, not knowing where it comes from, as he begins slipping out from between the rocks.</p>
<p>
  <em> No, YOU are merely a cruel swordmaster. Take your blade to SLAUGHTER you useless—</em>
</p>
<p>“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, swatting at the sword behind him. “Just give me a second.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Lure the creature to the open field. Attempting to fight it here will find you flattened under its hooves.</em>
</p>
<p>“I know that.”</p>
<p>
  <em>I find that difficult to believe. You know so very little when it comes to tactical skill.</em>
</p>
<p>“Do you want me to go fight it or not?” He says, glaring down at the sword.</p>
<p>
  <em>You have found your tongue. Delightful.</em>
</p>
<p>Link doesn’t reply, too busy wiggling himself free of the rocks, irritation forcing him to frown. He slips free with a huff and then, standing out in the open, having been arguing loudly with the <em>needy</em> sword gripped in his hands...</p>
<p>The lynel sees him.</p>
<p>He’s standing under the beast’s dark shadow in seconds. Its hot breath flows down over him even from a distance, smelling like acid and rot and magic. There’s no time for anything. He lifts the sword up, hears maniacal cackling that ignites his own heart, and then the lynel is rushing in.</p>
<p>Heeding Ghirahim’s advice from earlier, Link dashes left and breaks into a run, heading for the open fields. The monster follows him with running hooves. Link moves as fast as he can, for the first time glad for Ghirahim’s lighter weight. He doesn't look back. There are eyes behind him anyway. He doesn’t stop until there’s nothing but grass in every direction, a few trees to hide behind – he doesn’t stop until he spots the fire, still lit and forgotten by travellers, and he gets an idea.</p>
<p>Grinning to himself, Link sets the sword on the latch behind him.</p>
<p>
  <em>What are you DOING?</em>
</p>
<p>“Trust me,” he says under his breath, picking up a long stick and lighting it.</p>
<p>In a wild arc Link spins around, a branch of burning fire gripped in his hands, and black slash of steel across his back. He is shirtless, save for tattered bandages around his torso, and heaves for breath as he faces the thunder-footed lynel.</p>
<p>The beast lunges towards him. Its gigantic sword is like a cloud blocking out the sun as the lynel raises it over Link’s smaller frame.</p>
<p>The blade at his back flares with heat suddenly. It’s so hot it almost burns his bare skin, even through the bandages across his torso.</p>
<p>
  <em> Link! </em>
</p>
<p>The hero feints right and then dashes left, the lynel’s fat blade smashing down into grass uselessly. Then, with the beast busy trying to dig his weapon out, Link runs around it.</p>
<p>Keeping his fire-lit stick close to the long grass, he ignites the field into a hazey, midday blaze. The fire picks up easily on the dry summer reeds, flourishing towards the sky in arches like looming red and yellow snakes. Everything is on fire in seconds. He grins as he runs, naked skin warmed as he traps the lynel in flames.</p>
<p>Job done, Link throws the stick away and lifts his sword from his back, the latch clicking in a way that makes his grin grow wider.</p>
<p>
  <em>Well now… that was unexpected.</em>
</p>
<p>Panting, Link wipes at his forehead. “You won’t break,” he says through heavy breaths, his gaze locked onto a gigantic beast.</p>
<p>
  <em>Never.</em>
</p>
<p>His heart feels like it shatters as he bursts into a run, growling under his breath. The lynel is storming straight through the flames which isn't a surprise at all, but Link can see where it burns against its rough hide. Incensed in a way he’s never let himself be before, he raises the black blade to meet a giant grey one as it comes to cleave him in half.</p>
<p>The reverberation shakes his whole body. A sharp twinge rakes down his arms. Fire licks at his legs, but he doesn’t feel that.</p>
<p>The fight is wild and hot under the unyielding sun and he’s soaked with sweat minutes into it. When the lynel strikes, he finds he can flip backwards and then send the sword out toward an opening, trying to cut at the beast's chest. He misses, but still the lighter weight of the sword lets Link dance around the creature. When the lynel runs in a rage, fire billowing from the grass under its hooves, Link runs the opposite direction, leaps, and carves a long line of red straight across its torso.</p>
<p>The demon moans in his head. <em>Oh this blood… What did you say this horrible creature was called?</em></p>
<p>“Lynel.”</p>
<p>The black sword gripped in his hands is coated with blood, a dark blue colour that’s almost as black as the blade. Another long, low moan rolls through Link’s head. He’d be embarrassed under different circumstances – but he’s too busy to care right now. This fight isn’t easy. If he trips up, even once, he’s dead.</p>
<p>Link rushes back in and ducks under a swinging blade, stabbing the beast right through its front, sinking the sword in deep.</p>
<p>Another long moan blooms inside his head. He can picture Ghirahim easily, tongue hanging out between his fangs, his eyes fluttering shut or maybe rolling back as he makes that ridiculous noise. Link snorts out a soft laugh. He’s always so…</p>
<p>
  <em>Laugh all you like, hero. You will—</em>
</p>
<p>Before Ghirahim can insult him, Link sinks his blade in deeper, grinning when that sonorous voice falls apart to a low groan.</p>
<p>The lynel roars, stumbling backward. Link, seeing the opportunity, leaps into a high arc. Holding the blood-soaked sword back, he shouts with effort and swings it in a perfect semicircle, slicing the beast across its thick throat.</p>
<p>He lands heavy on his boots, grinning and wiping splattered blood from his mouth.</p>
<p>“How’s that?” he asks Ghirahim through panting breaths.</p>
<p>
  <em>How have you managed—</em>
</p>
<p>Link shouts and charges in again, feeling unhinged and wild, feeling all of his responsibilities melt away as he gives himself to fluid movement, to combat. He shouldn’t be risking his life for a single, meaningless fight but it feels so <em>good</em> to let go of everything.</p>
<p>The lynel, roaring with rage, rushes in on them again. Link makes to dodge – feints left as he had before.</p>
<p>But a fat, steely sword follows him, and the first inch of its edge sinks in.</p>
<p>It slices from his torso to his hip, thick and ragged. The cut is enough to stun him, head hazing to an electric stillness, and he stands amidst fire and blood spattered grass numbly for a moment too long. The lynel's blade plummets down towards his face and it is only instinct that jerks his body away. Still, the blunt force of the flat of the sword smashes into his temple, and Link's world goes white.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p>
  <em><br/>
Get up.</em>
</p>
<p>The hero groans, trying to lift his head.</p>
<p><em>Get up NOW</em>, the demon cries while the hulking beast stalks ever closer to its prey.</p>
<p>Fingers twitch, searching black leather, but their light is fading.</p>
<p>
  <em>You are FINE, GET UP!</em>
</p>
<p>Bright red blood leaks over burnt grass, shimmering like a jewel in the orange sunlight of this forsaken field. The hero does not move. Not an inch.</p>
<p>Mortality rears its heinous head, staring at the demon through that red glittering blood.</p>
<p>
  <em> Link! </em>
</p>
<p>No response comes.</p>
<p>Weakened as he is, Ghirahim is unable to call himself from his blade. The fingers on his hilt twitch while the hero bleeds.</p>
<p><em>Move me</em>, he commands in sudden realization, <em>NOW, Link! Into the blood!</em></p>
<p>He is pushed toward a gaping wound with a woeful, wet groan.</p>
<p>Sweet crimson coats his blade. In a disorientating rush Ghirahim is brought to his full strength, a swooning sort of power cracking through his soul.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Link fades in and out of consciousness, but he’s aware of a few things. A cold hilt under his fingers; white form-fitting shoes dancing along the grass; knives zipping through the air…</p>
<p>Eventually, his head clears from the blow. Eyes watery with pain and cheeks pale without blood, Link forces himself to sit up. His vision spins.</p>
<p>The demon is like a white flash of light, diamonds blinking him from one place to another, knives flying out to strike the lynel’s head, black saber cutting red ribbons of flesh… Link, incoherent, keeps his hazey eyes open to watch. He grabs at his side… he should stop the bleeding, but then he’d have to look away.</p>
<p>Ghirahim kills the lynel with a final, ruthless slice through its tough throat. The beast falls to its front knees, and then hits the grass heavily enough to shake the ground under Link.</p>
<p>It disappears in a wave of violet smoke, vile magic whisking its form away.</p>
<p>White feet turn in a definite arc. “<em>You</em>.” From a distance the demon narrows his eyes at Link.</p>
<p>“Sorry.” The single word croaks. He looks up, eyes glued to a white figure as Ghirahim storms towards him. “I didn’t mean to get hit.”</p>
<p>“Mortals are so <em>inconvenient</em>,” the demon roars, something in his dark eyes Link can’t remember ever seeing before. “One slice is all it takes! But a single stab! How— How— How <em>weak!”</em></p>
<p>“Ghirahim,” Link says his name with blinking surprise. He’s never heard him trip over his words. Not for a second.</p>
<p>The demon growls with frustration low from his chest, and then with a snap of gloved fingers he disappears inside the sword.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Perform whatever task you must to cease leaking your mortality all over this grass.</em>
</p>
<p>The Skyloft hero had had those pesky little fairies to magically mend his skin. Ghirahim can remember clearly watching him flit about with that ridiculous net, ears straining for the faint sounds the fairies apparently made though the demon could never hear a thing.</p>
<p>Link offers no reply. He procures a vile of purple liquid from that contraption he carries on his hip, and drinks its contents. His body temperature evens out with this, and his dizzy state fades. These, Ghrahim knows, are potions for stamina. Link consumes them regularly enough.</p>
<p>Yet they do not close his wounds.</p>
<p>Next, to Ghirahim’s honest horror, the hero produces a sharp needle and wirey thread. With fingers that quiver he begins to sew the messy wound together, slicking the needle and string through his red-soaked skin. The sounds of pain are quiet but plentiful. Link hisses and groans, bites at his mouth to stop himself yet the anguished noises ring through. In his stamina-induced state his pale eyes burn.</p>
<p>This cannot be all there is. All that his goddess had given him.</p>
<p>Even to the demon, it is far too cruel.</p>
<p>Link, his frame shuddering, rises to his feet. Blood-soaked hands bring Ghirahim’s blade along.</p>
<p>An unknown sensation courses through him. One he does not find particularly comfortable.</p>
<p><em>You are a mess</em>, Ghirahim says, uncertain why he is speaking at all.</p>
<p>The hero runs a hand through his hair, blood and dirt tracking through sunlit locks. He nods. “Sorry,” he says. The misplaced apology is ragged and has Ghirahim’s steel stinging. “I got too…” His words die, as they often do, but the final ones creak out, “...into it, I guess.”</p>
<p>A weight devours the demon’s soul. A heaviness Ghirahim does not recognize, and does not <em>want</em>. Contorting in this sour sensation inside his blade, the demon denotes to <em>do</em> something about it. Banish it. Obliterate it from his very being.</p>
<p>And he knows just the sort of distraction required.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Link sways on his feet as he walks. The three lizalfo claw marks shredded through his back burn, torn open from the fight, and the fresh wound from the lynel seers along his side.</p>
<p>He needs to find ingredients for a strong healing elixir, and he needs to find them soon. But Keese are never around during the daytime and he’s not always lucky enough to find them at night… The stitches should hold him together.</p>
<p>A sudden rush of diamonds halts him in his tracks.</p>
<p>Ghirahim appears in front of him, only inches away, tall and demanding as ever.</p>
<p>Link stops breathing, his eyes dancing back and forth between dark ones. He’d thought for a while he’d never see him again. He stares from the diamond in his ear, down his form-fitting white suit, snapping back up to his eyes. His hands are still vibrating with the fight and stitching himself up. His torso is soaked in blood.</p>
<p>“You have no sense,” Ghirahim says, bending down with a placid stare, “None at all. Running into the thrall of battle, shirtless, on fire…”</p>
<p>A gloved hand moves matted hair away from his face. Link stutters out a single breath, searching back and forth between dark eyes.</p>
<p>“What a mess I have made of you…” Ghirahim’s voice seems lost to itself. Fingers find one of his eyebrows and trace a line, delicate and methodical. Link nearly sighs. It would be nice to rest, just for a minute. But he can’t—</p>
<p>
  <em>Did you suppose there was something else here? Oh… fragile naivety was always my favourite to pulverize… Boy I will HAVE YOUR BLOOD.</em>
</p>
<p>Link sucks in air through his nose that slams against the back of his head.</p>
<p>Ghirahim’s steel had been frigid, his words worse than that. Cracked or not – intentional or not – Link can’t risk it, not with so many lives resting on his shoulders, not when there’s so much he isn’t sure about.</p>
<p>“I ought to take better care—”</p>
<p>Link puts the palms of both of his hands on toned forearms and he pushes, not harshly. He pushes enough to force the demon away from him. Link takes a stumbling step backwards. His head spins from blood loss and the close proximity.</p>
<p>“Stop,” he says evenly.</p>
<p>The demon doesn’t look surprised. Or maybe he had, and Link missed it.</p>
<p>Now, though, Ghirahim smirks at him as if he’d already known he’d be pushed away.</p>
<p>“You’ve finally grown some sense, I see.” He’s angry. No matter how smug that expression looks, Link can tell by his voice that he’s angry. Maybe even hurt. “I suppose that is for the <em>best</em>,” Ghirahim hisses. Link wants to explain himself but he <em>can’t</em>, there’s too much and his brain doesn’t line up with his tongue and he’d just bled out all over the grass and Ghirahim wouldn't even believe him, anyway; he never has before.</p>
<p>A shiver runs up the demon's back. Link can see it plainly. Is it pain? Anger? Something else?</p>
<p>“Very well,” he practically spits, magenta and black diamonds already unfolding all around him.</p>
<p>He disappears inside the sword again. The force of his spirit returning is enough to knock Link forward as if kicked flat on the back. The wounds under bandages sting brightly, and he grunts but doesn't trip.</p>
<p>He walks in silence the rest of the day. The only indication that Ghirahim is even there is the warmth of his sword, the strange altered weight, and the gentle pulse of energy so familiar he hardly feels it.</p>
<p>He heads south towards the Riverside Stable. It’s getting late and considering the climb ahead of him tomorrow and the wounds on his body, Link knows he needs about twelve hours of sleep. After that, maybe they can talk. Ghirahim had been about to tell him something important before the lynel showed up.</p>
<p>The demon doesn't say a word the whole night. Not even when Link crouches down to feed a dog that wanders over, sniffing at his pockets. Eventually he magics himself corporeal to clean his blade, but this is done without even a glance at Link; and Link, stomach full of lead, eyes full of shimmering white hair he has no reason to like so much, doesn’t know what to do.</p>
<p>He tries not to think about fingers in his hair. Tries not to think about anything. He tries to think about Zelda, and all of Hyrule, and what will happen if he fails. It matters more because it <em>has</em> to. Link tries to think about how to put that into words, but knows that matters least of all because it’s impossible.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have to credit <a href="https://queerahim.tumblr.com/">Alicia</a> for giving me the idea of the gem changing colour, and <a href="https://cactustonic.tumblr.com/">Tonic</a> for showing me a few pages of the Historia so I could finally make up my mind on whether or not to do it ;v; And really we all need to thank <a href="https://actually-an-alpaca.tumblr.com/">Alpaca</a> who deals with the brunt of my insecurities.</p>
<p>The next few are my favourite... [spoilers censored], so I hope people will come back when I update. </p>
<p>Thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Temple of Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Within the confines of his blade, through the reaching sight of his gem, the demon sword peers up at the looming wall before them. Its formidable stone surrounds a vast expanse of land, as if holding back a dam of earth. The height from the bottom to the top must be at least fifty feet, enough to kill any mortal who fell. The Hylian Hero is standing at the base of the wall, hands on his hips, his expression affecting stern focus. At the very top of the structure Ghirahim can see crumbling monuments of the goddess and, better still, birds <em>relieving</em> themselves upon said monuments.</p><p>His witless charge, already wet with the repugnant fact of mortal perspiration, turns his blond head up towards the top of this monstrous wall. The bodily sweat is evidently from the unrelenting sun which Ghirahim, loath as he is to admit it, also finds oppressively hot. His blade is burning enough to be malleable and he feels sluggish. Such sensations had never ailed him three thousand years ago but he sees no point in dwelling on realities he cannot alter.</p><p>Though he has felt strange in a different way since waking up in that bush. Perhaps it is some lingering effect from slaying that piece of his Master’s soul.</p><p>There is a fresh sort of sigh, a sound of relinquishing himself to the unavoidable, and then Link grips his hands into fists of stubborn determination. His boots pad softly on grass, as they often do, a sound that in his metal-warmed state begs the demon’s mind for memorium.</p><p>It is a plea he does not entertain.</p><p>Despite obvious nervousness, the Hylian begins climbing.</p><p>With his jaw cinched closed, his fingers search for purchase on the most minor of edges and near-invisible grooves, seemingly lifting himself with their very tips. Still, the ascent is maddeningly slow.</p><p>The view is as it has been since they began: the red fire of Death Mountain to the northwest, and east of that the castle spiraling with malignant infection – ‘the calamity’ as he has heard the hero name it. How displeasing to have to gaze at the fact of his Master, perpetually present in the skyline. How very like Demise to be visible from every corner of the land. How irritating to be bothered by it at all. Ghirahim is, for one of the rare moments in his life, exceptionally tired.</p><p>Five minutes tick by, gradual and hot, and the Hylian has yet to have made any substantial progress. Present circumstances notwithstanding, Ghirahim could have whisked the boy to the top of this plateau in a whirlwind of diamonds. He could have delivered him anywhere his pitiful heart so desired.</p><p>At risk of digression, Ghirahim elects – as he has thus far – not to dwell on his dysfunctional powers.</p><p>Yet this climb risks boring him to madness.</p><p><em>I believe I was promised hot springs</em>, He says through the spell that sends his voice directly inside pointed ears. It is the first thing he has said to the hero in more than a full day.  <em>Clearly, you have neglected to keep your end of our little bargain.</em></p><p>The boy huffs, perhaps from effort but more likely from annoyance. “Have to— do— something,” he pants, arms straining through their ascent, “first.”</p><p><em>Yes, scale this monumental wall. You have yet to enlighten me as to the</em> purpose <em>of such a harrowing ascent; as far as I can glean your only success has been wetting my blade with your horrid mortal perspiration.</em></p><p>“I can’t help it if I sweat,” Link says, his straining voice unusually short.</p><p><em>How unfortunate</em>, Ghirahim snaps back, his own even shorter.</p><p>“Can’t you just—” his words fall silent as he hauls himself up with still nothing more than the very tips of five fingers. They stick precariously on a slip of edge so small it is scarcely there. “—be quiet? I’m the one doing all the work.”</p><p>Ghirahim feels a bristling chill in his steel. <em>Why are we on this wall, boy?</em></p><p>Another small huff, and this one obviously obstinate. “Maybe you don’t need to know.”</p><p>
  <em> Oh, the hero has found his tongue yet again. Wonderful. Please, shower me in your profound mastery of language. </em>
</p><p>Link clenches his jaw, his eyes shutting in obvious frustration. No more words are forthcoming.</p><p>
  <em>It is far too easy to silence you, hero. Have you no teeth to bite with?</em>
</p><p>“Maybe I just don’t—” he starts, groaning with effort (or is it pain? does it hurt to climb with sewn skin?) as he uses one leg on a high ledge to pull himself up, “—don’t want to talk to you.”</p><p>
  <em>Yes, I suppose your inability to keep up would make the act unbelievably frustrating.</em>
</p><p>Again blue eyes shut, his face the picture of tired annoyance.</p><p>“Stop it.” </p><p><em>Stop what?</em> Ghirahim asks with faux-innocence.</p><p>“You’re— <em>talking</em>.”</p><p><em>How perceptive of you,</em> he whispers, letting his voice rest longer inside Link’s head than strictly necessary. <em>Do my words affect you so? </em></p><p>“You’re—” Link pauses, whether to breathe through his work or because he does not know what to say, Ghirahim has no way of knowing. “You’re so…”</p><p><em>What?</em> He snaps, irritation engulfing him like a swarm. This emulation, in all of his stilted speech, his <em>withheldness</em>, his strange expressions that fail to function properly to the point of indecipherability, his <em>hideously</em> long hair, wrong-coloured and always falling into his eyes— He is somehow equally as aggravating as—</p><p><em> Spit it out of that halting mouth, </em> Ghirahim says in a rush, steel growing still hotter under the scorching sun, <em>Your verbal insufficiencies are insufferable. They are worse than your atrocious swordsmanship.</em> He hears the blond hiss, undeniably at the burning steel resting against his back. <em>Both are sorely lacking. What is to blame, hm? Has dying for your goddess only to be resurrected at her behest damaged your mind? Or perhaps forgetting all of your little </em>friends<em> has stolen your voice. How sentimental. How weak. The poor hero, alone in his task, deprived of even memories of happier times. </em></p><p>“I remember them,” he says, his tone acidic with anger, snapping like electricity. “And yesterday, with the lynel, you said—”</p><p>
  <em>I was merely distracted by the taste of its blood. You remain an incompetent swordsman. I have been held by better hands. </em>
</p><p>“<em>Fine</em>. Maybe I’ll drop you.” A free hand grabs the belts across his chest; Ghirahim is tousled as Link tugs on them.</p><p>
  <em> Someone ought to thrash you for that attitude of yours. </em>
</p><p>“Come out and try,” he says, the grip on the belts tightening, paused in his ascent as he holds onto a ledge with a single peach hand. “I know you can fight on your own. Not that you ever bother.”</p><p>
  <em>I could topple you from this wall with but a single tug. Do not doubt me, boy. Your life may be a sordid necessity I require to slay my Master – you and your servile pure heart – yet I would kill you given half the chance! </em>
</p><p>Hanging halfway up the fifty foot towering wall, hot wind blows across his blade, tangling blond hair that never manages to stay within its tie. The boy’s heart is pounding. The demon can feel it through his back, wrapped in bandages as it is.</p><p>What is beneath those bandages? A wound of some sort. Not from the lynel.</p><p>Link doesn’t reply. Is he truly afraid? Ghirahim has threatened his life innumerably. He recalls that night at the shrine, holding his blade against the tendons of a vulnerable throat, and Link only curious about the presence of the saber itself.</p><p>What had changed?</p><p>He claimed Ghirahim’s blade had shattered. Yet such an event was utterly impossible, unfathomable.</p><p>It would be pure folly to ignore the fact that he has no memory of the events following his final plunge into that sliver of his Master’s soul. That <em>blight</em>, as Link had called it. Their connection may have been weakened over time, yet it is not gone. Perhaps in its lingering some difficulties are to be found. Perhaps—</p><p>The sound of boots skidding on stone tears him from his thoughts. Following this is a distinct shout, a tumultuous ‘aah!’ that lacks all dignity, one Ghirahim knows well. Link had slipped on the looming wall. He’s falling, eyes widening to tiny pupils, eminent death understood in his expression.</p><p>Ghirahim reacts without thinking. If he had thought about it he would not have done it, because he does not believe it would work.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He should’ve made more stamina elixirs, Link thinks to himself as he slips. The two he’d taken before starting this climb had worn off and he’s barely past halfway. He knows he’s going to fall before he does. All Link hopes is that he can grab his glider fast enough to save his life. He’s done it before, he thinks as wind begins to rush up around him, his fallen hair flowing upwards in the draft. He’s fine, he thinks as his eyes widen to an approaching plummet. He’s done this before. He’ll make it. He can’t die like this, slain by his own stupidity, he can’t—</p><p>Something solid meets his feet, too soon to be the harsh ground waiting for him. His legs bend and the force knocks him to his rear. He lands hard. The abrupt jerk of stopped motion rattles his teeth.</p><p>“Hu—” Link breathes, his hips aching, his spine feeling compressed as he blinks.</p><p>Something is pricking at his skin. Harsh, tiny needles of pain. He looks down and his sight is flooded with shimmering gold.</p><p>There’s a small platform under him. It’s as thin as paper and made of a flat diamond-shaped pattern. Each diamond, connected at their points, varies in size – but they’re all glimmering and proud and holding his weight half-way up the plateau’s vast wall.</p><p>“Ghirahim…”</p><p>He’s met with silence.</p><p>“What…”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-- <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The demon sword is not often surprised; having been alive for millennia, he has been witness to a great deal of perplexities.</p><p>Yet he has attempted this magic with Link before and been met with stark resistance by whatever wards the goddess has laid over her hero’s new spirit, or perhaps by the nature of said reformed spirit itself. Ghirahim had never understood exactly <em>what</em> it was that blocked him, only that his own spells were moot when attempted on the hero.</p><p>The sheikah magic he carries on his hip, the same magic that lights the shrines and guides his quest, does not work with the demon in much the same manner.</p><p>It only made sense. They were never meant to walk the same path.</p><p>And yet…</p><p>In a wave of diamonds, Ghirahim sets himself next to the stunned hero, frowning down darkly at his golden platform. It seems to glare straight back at him as if in denial of its own impossibility.</p><p>“Is this…” Link starts, staring still with senselessly wide eyes, staring straight down through the translucent gold diamonds. “Is this you?”</p><p>Ghirahim, about to reply in the affirmative regardless of his own confusion, stops short. He is standing to Link’s left. He has a clear view of his blade.</p><p>His body goes cold.</p><p>“What have you done to my <em>sword?”</em> He practically shrieks, his hands curling at his sides and then out towards black steel, lines of ferocious panic splintering at the corners of his eyes. His blade is mutilated! It has been thinned out, its gnarling curls still present yet neatly cut into diamond segregations, its red gem turned <em>sapphire</em>. It has been <em>shrunk!</em> Oh Ghirahim is going to bleed this Hylian dry. He is going to bleed him and bathe in his blood until all he knows is that nectarous crimson. “Boy, y—”</p><p>“Me?” comes a hoarse cry. “<em>Me?”</em> it comes again, its rasped harshness fully new to Ghirahim’s ears. “You came back like this!”</p><p>“Cease your ineffective <em>lying</em> at once.”</p><p>“I’m not lying!”</p><p>“What strange creature did you take me to? You must have rendered me unconscious, somehow, and brought me to…” Where? He has not heard any mention of any sacred flames here. “What manner of magic did you <em>bastardize</em> me with?”</p><p>“I didn’t <em>do anything</em>,” Link says, voice still rasped and desperate. Those blue eyes are not looking at Ghirahim. They are staring out at the landscape as if they do not see at all. “I told you, you <em>broke</em>, and—”</p><p>“I will not explain to you again how impossible that is.”</p><p>“Well it <em>happened!” </em>Link shouts, his hands gripping at the diamond platform under him. He looks so small, sitting with his knees bent, that disfigured sword on his back overpowering. “You broke and I went after you even though I didn’t want to! You could thank me! You could just—”</p><p>“<em>Thank </em> you? For culling the mass of my very blade? This sword is not some mere <em>vessel</em> I inhabit. It is as much my body as what you see before you n—”</p><p>“I know that!” he shouts again, still looking out at the horizon. How foolish to hold a conversation without looking at the other party. How foolish this boy is. “I know that,” he says again, this time quieter. Softer. The Hylian rubs at his face, long and slow.</p><p>Tired.</p><p>He breathes out in much the same manner and then he says, “I don’t think I can do this.”</p><p>The demon laughs, once and darkly. “No one is forcing you.”</p><p>Link turns his head finally and Ghirahim is given the rare gift of his hottest glare, thick brows surging to their corners. His eyes are damp, yet lined with vivid anger, and his lips press into a tight line.</p><p>“You’re right,” he says.</p><p>And then he says nothing at all.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>There are a lot of things Link wants to say. No one is forcing him, and that’s true, but he’d been under the impression that Ghirahim was staying because he wanted to. That they were both doing this because they <em>wanted</em> to be doing it. Even though Hylia rejected him. Even though everyone was afraid of him. Even though Impa, Kaneli, everyone, <em>everything</em> in Hyrule was telling Link to go get his rightful sword, they were still… making the choice to be together.</p><p>Well, fine. The Temple of Time is just over the Plateau wall. They’ll be there in an hour. The Goddess will tell him his soul’s been tampered with, infected or altered or whatever, and then Link will tell the demon he has to go. He won't have a choice.</p><p>Fine. </p><p>Ignoring Ghirahim completely, ignoring the gold diamonds under him, ignoring the ones on his white form-fitting suit, his cloak missing probably because of the heat, the kohl under his eyes, the dynamic way his face contorts when he’s as angry as he is right now—</p><p><em>Ignoring</em> all of it, Link stands up, and he resumes his climb towards the Great Plateau. </p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Ghirahim returns to his sword, smoldering within it. His anger seems to mix irrevocably with the heat of the sun. The audacity of being <em>lied</em> to – <em>by a man-child no less!</em> – has him suffocating in coiling rage. Who does this boy think he is? Pitiful, small, a weak little <em>thing</em>, a puppet on Hylia’s strings sent to do her bidding, lacking any true heart or will of his own. A scion. An imitation.</p><p>Why has he elected to stay, all this time? The hero will slaughter Demise without him. It is his singular task. The goddess has made it so – taken his life, taken his autonomy, all for this purpose. Ghirahim does not need to be here. He does not want to be here, strapped to repulsive peach skin, bandaged and sunkissed, new gashes formed from unknown attacks, that C-shaped guttural slice from the lynel stitched poorly with fingers that had quivered. How <em>pathetic</em> he is to have gotten hit, how useless a swordsman, how plainly unqualified to wield his blade. How mortal.</p><p>And he has disfigured his very sword! It is no longer the oppressive mass meant for the engorged hands of a Demon King. It remains sharp and dark but it has been husked, culled of its massive presence!</p><p>Ghirahim hears a hiss. Oh his blade must be burning that peach skin. Between the roaring sun and his suffocating anger, it must be searing the boy.</p><p><em>Wonderful.</em> Let him burn.</p><p>The demon has remained here far too long. Once he learns the purpose of this little trek, he will vanish. Hopefully the damage to his blade is not irreversible. He will undo any and all fractions of alteration this fool may have affected.</p><p>The rest of the climb is done in silence and with greater haste. Link pulls himself over the lip by his forearms, panting gracelessly and soaked with his mortal sweat. His body is so sodden the bandage on his back begins to slip away. Beneath, showing only slightly, appears the start of claw marks, three in a row. A lizalfo had scratched him. Deeply. The stitches here are even more haphazard than the ones on his side.</p><p>“Will you stop that?” Link says through a hiss, on his hands and knees on top of this plateau. “I get it, you’re mad.”</p><p><em>Mad?</em> Ghirahim allows his blade to grow hotter, or perhaps cannot help it; the hero’s mouth drops open into a pained moan and a rush of delight fills him to his hilt. <em>You have yet to see me mad.</em></p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>
  <em>Begging for it, are we?</em>
</p><p>“Shut up!” he nearly screams, face towards the ground. </p><p>Ghirahim feels another thrill. <em>Oh poor little hero… All alone with a demon, way out here.</em></p><p>“Ghirahim. I–” He stops abruptly, though nothing had given him cause to do so.</p><p>The boy slams his mouth shut, frowning with focus, and then he rises to his feet. With the resolute determination of a predator, he storms southward.</p><p>
  <em>You will pay dearly for defiling my blade. </em>
</p><p>No reply comes. He is perfectly ignored.</p><p>This is preferable. Ghirahim wishes for naught but his silence. He is ill at the thought of his altered sword.</p><p>He is ill from <em>all</em> of this.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Link slams his mouth shut just to hold himself together. The demon always gives him a hard time, ever since he’d first appeared in a flutter of diamonds, Link gawking on his knees up at him. His very first words were an implication Link tires hard not to focus on, refuses to let himself remember at night.</p><p>But it’s too much now. How can Ghirahim not believe him? He can still feel frigid metal on his back, that empty voice ghosting through his ears, steel shards cutting his palms and then fading as if they never existed. The slow leak of the calamity from his cracked blade. That crack, gaping and awful, taking up the whole of Link’s sight.</p><p>
  <em>No one is forcing you.</em>
</p><p>It hurt so much because he thought they were at least <em>partners</em>. At least sort of. Was Ghirahim just bored? Was he here to torment Link, make this journey more difficult just <em>because?</em></p><p>Did he care at all?</p><p>There is so much passion in the energy he spills out – Link had just assumed he cared. Didn’t he want Ganon dead too? There's so <em>much</em> to Ghirahim, to how it feels to hold his hilt. Each swing feels right, every single time.</p><p>Now the demon sword is burning at his back, doesn't believe him at all, and doesn’t want to be here. Has it been a game to him this whole time? Is Link just some toy for him to play with?</p><p>It’s too much to think about.</p><p>He just needs to get to the temple.</p><p>After climbing up the ruined stairs, past the husks of guardians and mounds of overgrown foliage, Link stands at the crumbled entrance to the Temple of Time. He knows already that he won't be able to take the sword inside with him. He lifts the blade from his back and sets it down against a large boulder, absolutely silent.</p><p>Ghirahim doesn’t say anything. No complaint, no scathing remark, no demand not to be dropped.</p><p>Link debates explaining himself for about three seconds before he sets his face stern and marches inside the temple.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Through the diamond at his crossguard, now a bright sapphire, Ghirahim watches the boy leave.</p><p>He has brought them to some sort of ruined temple. Inside he can see the withered monument of Hylia, illuminated by lights that come from the ground, doubtless magical. The entire western wall is crumbled away. Just outside, over a large lake, Ghirahim can see a long yellow strip floating through the air.</p><p>A dragon. Yet not the sort he is familiar with.</p><p>Perhaps he will venture there, then, once the boy is finished with this task. Ghirahim cannot leave just now; the useless Hylian has left himself vulnerable. He has come here to perform the menial task of prayer, kneeling under Hylia’s infernal light like the puppet he is. No sword at his back; only his bow, a useless trinket. Loathe as the demon is to admit it, if this scion dies his Master will win, and all else notwithstanding Ghirahim would prefer Demise did <em>not</em>.</p><p>This place seems familiar. He has seen these stone pillars before.</p><p>Simmering inside his sword, the demon sets his sight on the boy’s back. Kneeled and servile, head bowed, and skin heavily mared. Those bandages continue to fall away, and Ghirahim is left staring at deep red skin, thrashed claw marks from shoulder to hip.</p><p>The Skyloft hero had always reappeared without injury. Inexplicably, at first, until Ghirahim had witnessed him chasing after those pesky little faeries with a net; smiling as if the world he held so dearly was not on the brink of absolute destruction; a smile never directed at him, oh no, Ghirahim had never witnessed it on that docile face until that moment. He had not revealed himself and could not explain why. Had not even attempted to do so. Silently, he had only watched the focused way the hero sought out the soft glowing creatures, magic sealing wounds instantaneously.</p><p>And then to discover weeks later his impairment! How could he have possibly known? The little gnat had tricked him! He moved with all confidence as if he <em>were</em> in full possession of sight! He had traversed through the Faron Woods and made his way through that volcano. How, without functioning eyes; it was the sword, of course it was his sword. Inferior blade that it was, named after its creator and yet weak in its infantile state. It could see for him, and Ghirahim had boiled in anger.</p><p>The steel of his own sword heats up now, unmoving under the sun, no way to acclimatize itself. He is well past the point of malleable. Memoriam washes over the demon without warning. A flood of unavoidable feelings, a skirting half-remembered miasma.</p><p>It is no happy memory, though perhaps it was the beginning to his debasement at those wretched hands. He had not discovered Link’s blindness until their third encounter; technically fourth, though the boy had been unaware of the one prior. The Skyloft hero, trudging along that mine as if he could bare witness to it all: no trepidation, heedless of any necessary precautions – donning that offensively green tunic and tasteless green cap, his honey-hair hanging over his ears, his infuriatingly intent expression denoting his singular goal as he marched through the dreary and ancient mines like the servant-knight he was…</p><p>Ghirahim had posed himself unmistakably in his path. He leaned his lovely form against an unsightly brown wall, allowed his fangs to reveal themselves and folded his arms low to his abdomen. Watching the approaching greenness of this boy-knight, he had merely waited to be noticed.</p><p>Link had come close, his vision unwavering, and a hand tracing the opposing wall as he walked. Yet Ghirahim had not wondered at it – had merely thought he would be impossible to miss among all this sickly brown.</p><p>And then the little gadfly had <em>passed straight by him!</em> As if the fierce demon lord was not there at all! As if all his gold and crimson and diamonds did <em> not </em> stand out among the dreary temple walls.</p><p>It had been understandable in the Earth Temple. Ghirahim had been on high and he’d known the Skyloft Hero not to be necessarily perceptive, <em>but this!</em> He had been blatantly disregarded and the demon would not stand for that. He seethed at Link’s retreating form. He had wanted to sink his claws into his back, straight through that hideous green and useless chainmail.</p><p>Ghirahim had gotten close. Close enough to smell him, all that forest-smell and dirt and repulsive mortal perspiration. He had slinked in close simply to watch bright fear burn across his soft face. The reaction had stirred his insides like no other ever had. Even in the throes of attempting to restore his Master, even from the very start, Ghirahim had been unable to let that go.</p><p>Looming over him, fingers tugging green fabric and snarling, his blade out and poised to slice…</p><p>He had realized the hero’s sightlessness with a rare widening of his own eyes.</p><p>Anger had been his initial reaction. Following this he’d begun to find it <em>amusing</em>.</p><p>Yet he had survived Scaldera, not an easy feat even with eyesight, which infuriated Ghirahim once again. He would slay him, restore his Master, and all would be as it should. It was his singular task, regardless of all else. He was <em>nothing</em> if not a loyal weapon.</p><p>Yet those hands…</p><p>Perhaps if that singular event had never happened, the rest would not have followed, and Ghirahim would have the good graces to be dead.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Link kneels at Hylia’s statue, his head aching and his shoulders burnt from the sun. He probably has tan lines of the belts; frowns at the thought. He knows he’ll have scars. Those sores had too many days to fester not to scar. The lizalfo claws, too.</p><p>Closing his eyes, he starts to pray, not exactly sure how to do it. This is only his second time here. He keeps it in his head – Hylia hears him anyway. He offers her the orbs he’d earned; she congratulates him well, whispering in his head, a perfect harmony of sound that relaxes him.</p><p>Dust breathes up through his nostrils. He closes his eyes tighter, letting her words drift through him. Strangely the air grows hotter. That dust, debris from the ruins around him, starts to feel like sand.</p><p>Even though the sword is detached from him, even though Ghirahim hadn’t said a word… He’s right there, out of reach, and the fact it nags at Link; that black-veined feeling is here somehow, even as he's bathed in Hylia’s light.</p><p>He waits to be told he’d ruined his soul.</p><p>He waits to be told he’d failed, that he’s tainted or sick or… defiled, somehow, permanently.</p><p>Her voice is never words exactly, just feelings, only sensations and ideas. Link waits to be overwhelmed by his own failure in her infinite eyes, because he’d been <em>selfish</em> and he’d been <em>tricked</em> and he’s <em>stupid</em> for carrying this sword around when he clearly wants him dead—</p><p>Ghirahim is behind him, too far away; this light eating at his skin isn’t bad, Link knows, but it hurts all the same. Because he’s alone in it. Because he has to be.</p><p>
  <em> Agree to take me to a hot spring at least once on your ridiculous quest, and I shall be ever the gentleman. </em>
</p><p>He remembers Rito Village; the climb, the insult about skulltula, the teasing, the harp.</p><p>What had that look been?</p><p>Rotten. </p><p>Tired. </p><p>
  <em> What have I done to deserve such an indifferent expression? </em>
</p><p>Why can't he focus? Hylia's voice slips from his head, drowned out by something darker. That burning feeling seeps through Link’s hands like he’s still holding the hilt.</p><p>The stone under him shifts. Lose. Grainy. The air goes dry.</p><p>
  <em> But instead I was... soft. </em>
</p><p>Link frowns. That voice needs to get out of his head. How can it be here, even now? He needs to focus. To pray. He needs to know if his soul’s been ruined, if he can fix it, and then he needs to ask Ghirahim to leave, because—</p><p>
  <em> Rewarding you, of course. </em>
</p><p>His hands itch. His back feels naked, open, vulnerable.</p><p>
  <em> Who knows what such a creature would do to your soul with prolonged use? </em>
</p><p>—Sand floods him and Link gasps, sucking it all in. It pours from the broken windows and crumbling stone walls and seems to grow inside his throat, springing into existence there. It piles through his sinuses, behind his eyes, blackening his sight in waves and mounds and boughs of it. Suffocating him. Burying him in deepening darkness.</p><p>His soul feels shifted with it. For a moment he thinks it’s Hylia, trying to search him through and through, but in a flash hot air devours him instead. And then Link, sitting drowning in divine light alone in the Temple of Time, doesn’t know who or where he is.</p><p>“Master.”</p><p>“‘Master’?” he repeats, smiling, the title strange in his ears. No one calls him that.</p><p><em>Such an uncouth</em>—</p><p>“Apologies.”</p><p>“Hm?” Link feels the sand under his knees, hot as the sun.</p><p><em> I do not wish to rush you through your prayer</em>, a voice like singing windchimes says, <em>And it is understandable that you would want to speak with Mistress Zelda. It is good for your mental health, even if she cannot hear you. Yet I must insist we make haste.</em></p><p>He hears the whirring sound of her dancing metal, Fi coming to float in front of him.</p><p>“There is a 78% chance that she is inside the Temple of Time, and thus far we have arrived late in all of our attempts to reach her.”</p><p>“Right,” Link says, kneeling in the sand in front of the bird statue. <em>Thanks for the reminder</em>, he doesn't say. Over the time they’ve spent together, nearly two months now, he's learned that her analytical nature sometimes makes her... blunt. But she never  means anything by it. That’s just how Fi is. “Okay, lets go.”</p><p>He’d started praying at the statues a few weeks ago. It helped him stay focused, and offered him rest. As much as he would like to do nothing but chase after Zelda until he finally, finally caught up with her – past experiences had taught him he needs to take breaks. Stalking through the woods all night hadn’t done much more than scratch him up. He figured being blind would give him an advantage in the dark. It wasn’t the darkness that had worn him out, though, but the constant crawl of skeletal monsters.</p><p>Sometimes when he prays, he swears he can hear Zelda, softly making fun of him or cheering him on.</p><p>But maybe he’s just losing his mind.</p><p>Dusting his knees clean of sand, Link turns back towards the Lanayru Desert.</p><p>The temple’s entrance is, of course, blocked. Gorko is standing next to the crumbled ruins. After their initial surprise at meeting yet again, the Goron explains the events to Link. Evidently Zelda had been here, along with her guardian, and they’d both made it inside the temple before some sort of explosion.</p><p>This leaves him with nowhere to go for a minute, nothing but the dry smell of sand in the air and wafting, unyielding heat. Even the sword at his back feels too warm. Fi’s never complained about temperature before, but Link hopes she’d tell him if she were too hot.</p><p>With not much else to go on, Link sends his beetle out, glad for the modifications Gondo added that let him choose an item for it to search out. It’s not perfect, but generally it works well. One time, though, it came back with a hornet’s nest. Link trusted it a little less after that.</p><p>After a bit of searching and teamwork, and one helpful robot, they get the gist of it.</p><p>He’s sweating through his chainmail and tunic in minutes. The desert is hot – it’s not as hot as Eldin Volcano, but running up and down sand dunes has him soaked through his chainmail. Even his gloves are sweaty. He’d like to take a few layers off, but he’ll need the armour if he’s attacked.</p><p>Fi, held in his left hand, clinks through his head, her voice as bright and windchime-like as always. <em>The first mechanism is likely north of our current location, I can make out an odd shape. Shall I lead you?</em></p><p>In the past two months, they’ve gotten better at working together. She still asks if he needs help in situations where he doesn’t, but Link’s starting to realize that it’s because it’s her job, and not because she thinks he can’t handle himself.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, listening for the sound of returning buzzing wings. “Please. At least until I know where everything is.”</p><p>
  <em>Of course. </em>
</p><p>It takes them about an hour of searching, riding rail cars, and fighting bokoblins, but he starts the generator finally. Fi helps him find all the power nodes, and line up the lightning, fire, and water symbols correctly on the final dial. It seems like a really inconvenient way to restart a generator, but he doesn’t stand around trying to figure it out. Who knows what ancient people used to live here or why they did any of this. Zelda would probably want to know. If they were together, if she were here, she’d demand they stop so <em>she</em> could figure it out.</p><p>Ignoring the way his heart sinks – there’s no point in daydreaming, he just needs to <em>find</em> her – he continues on.</p><p>He hears the Mining Facility slip out of the sand, the ground under his boots rumbling and finer grains kicking up into the air. When he breathes it in he coughs. Dirt and sweat cover his body from hours of hard work.</p><p>He hears the sound of clinking metal, a lot more like glass than steel, and then Fi’s floating to his left. <em>Well done, Master,</em> she says, her tone as even as always. <em>You will need to climb down this platform to your left, then walk across the sand approximately five paces. This will put you at the base of the stairs leading to the entrance. There are fifteen steps. The entry way is open. </em></p><p>Wiping sweat-sticky sand from his chin, not convinced he isn’t just adding more dirt to it, Link says, “Thanks, Fi.”</p><p>
  <em> You are most welcome. </em>
</p><p>Once he’s standing at the entrance to the mines, Link pulls the sword out the same time she returns to it. The action is repetitive enough now that they do so without talking. He holds the Goddess Sword out in front of him in a way he’s sure looks ridiculous, but provides much-needed perspective when entering new areas.</p><p>
  <em> There is a staircase leading down. I am unable to see the end, although torches light the way. Be careful, Master Link. There is a high probability we will encounter many threats. </em>
</p><p>He faces the darkness, both his own perpetual kind and the unseen before him, with a determined frown. Zelda is on the other side of this facility; Zelda’s waiting for him, pursued by a demon, and he’s not going to be late this time.</p><p>Once they reach the bottom of the stairs, Fi explains the layout to him. Everything is brown (a colour he hadn’t liked when he could see – a thought that makes his stomach twist up now), square, and there are a few new types of enemies. Spumes are the first he encounters, easily dealt with with a well-timed bomb.</p><p>Fi leads him towards a switch on the wall. Link jumps into the air on her cue and grabs the bar of the switch. He uses his weight to tug it down, dangling from it as an adjacent door slides open.</p><p>Holding his sword out as he runs, Link exits the room, listening to Fi’s glass-clinking voice and vibrations as he makes his way.</p><p>Even before his eyes stopped working entirely, he had never been able to see well. Link can remember being seven years old, sitting in class at the Academy and squinting at the blackboard while Owlan wrote out lessons. Eventually he asked to be moved to the front. This worked for a few years, but his vision had gotten worse as time went on. At first it had only been misty, like he was staring through foggy glass. By ten years old, though, he knew it was getting dark.</p><p>Zelda was the only person he ever told. He knew the moment their instructors found out, he’d be removed from the academy. She said she didn’t think so, that she’d fight her father every step of the way, but Zelda is just hopeful like that, and kind.</p><p>By twelve he was always missing his mark during spars. If the sun was up and fully bright, he could manage with shapes and shadows, but on days where clouds formed above Skyloft, higher in the atmosphere than the ones under his home, Link would find himself essentially in blackness. He can still remember the first time he’d gotten a wooden sword to the face. A strike that should've been parried easily.</p><p>Headmaster Gaepora thought he was just sick. He’d been sent to his room to rest for a few days. The clouds passed, and when he returned he could slip by with shapes and shadows, pretend to take notes at his desk, and pass off his handwriting as naturally awful during tests.</p><p>One day, just before he turned thirteen, he’d woken up in almost complete blackness. He figured clouds had rolled over the sun again. Hadn’t thought much of it, not until he’d made an off-hand remark to Zelda – <em>It’s cloudy today, huh?</em> – and she’d been absolutely silent.</p><p>‘No. Link, the sun…’</p><p>She’d grabbed his hands. His face must have fallen. He can’t remember – they'd been young – but he probably cried. Link wanted to be a knight more than he wanted anything. He wanted to go to the surface, someday, just like Zelda; he wanted to see the world below that always sat waiting like a mystery.</p><p>‘Zelda,’ he’d said her name like a plea.</p><p>‘Oh, <em>Link</em>. It’s okay. It’s okay, you can still…’</p><p>But he couldn’t. The headmaster found out quick enough, and Link was removed from the Academy that day. Zelda argued with her father for hours, Link could hear her pleas from his bedroom while he fell apart to his own tears. But it hadn’t mattered. In the end, what use was a blind knight?</p><p>
  <em>Master. You seem to know the layout of this section of the facility. Would you prefer I allow you to lead? There is a 98% chance of finding something of value here. I have marked the location for you with my dowsing ability. </em>
</p><p>He smiles. Fi doesn’t know his history with his sight, not all of it, but she often unintentionally says things that make Link forget he’s at a disadvantage at all. It had taken years to learn how to live like this. He’s not organized by nature and had to force himself to always put things back in the same place, had broken countless glasses and other trinkets in the process. His ability to memorize the layout of a room was no exception. It had taken him a long time. He’s just grateful spatial awareness had always come easily to him.</p><p>Fi never leaves when there are cliffs or something as dangerous as that, but inside the mines there are only walls and stone and noisey monsters.</p><p>“Sure. Thanks, Fi,” he says, meaning it more than his partner likely knows. “I’ll pull you out when I get out of here.” He sheaths her, and receives a small glassy clink in response.</p><p>There's a long hallway he'd been down a few times. He heads down again, his boots padding against the stone floor, and tracing a hand down the wall as he walks to feel for its end. His fingers meet the corner of the adjacent room when the sound of dark chimes hits his ears, stealing his breath.</p><p>“<em>Boy</em>.”</p><p>Everything about Link freezes. He goes solid, right from the bottom of his boots to the crown of his head. Ghirahim is right beside him. Not a foot of space. How, <em>how</em>—</p><p>“I realize you are profoundly weak to distraction,” the demon says, his tone that abyssal, furious one Link feels more than hears. “But surely not even an unobservant fool such as yourself could have neglected to see what is <em>directly</em> in front of you.”</p><p>Link turns to face him, to where he thinks, hopes, <em>prays</em> his useless eyes will land on the demon. He forces his expression into a frown. He’d decided not to let fear control him anymore. Ghirahim could flaunt and toy and tease however much he liked, he could corner him and cut him open, but Link would never give up.</p><p>But he knows from the following silence that he's facing the wrong direction.</p><p>“Have you fallen ill?” the demon asks.</p><p>Link turns to face that sound again, his jaw tight; if he’s not careful, if he’s not right, he’ll be found out.</p><p>“Poor little hero…” Hands creep over his shoulders, coming from in front of him, crawling like ants. Link tenses more, trying to wrench his shoulders free, but the icy grip stabs into his muscles. The tightness is like an iron clamp. Grunting lowly, he tries to focus his eyes up to where he hopes again they'll meet the demon's own. “No time to rest, is there, in your hopeless attempts to rescue your maiden? But perhaps I have <em>misjudged</em> you. Scaldera was no easy target... I should have remained and watched.”</p><p>The hands leave his shoulders. Their cold impressions stay. Link takes a step back, wanting space between them to hide himself in.</p><p>But his back thumps into the wall behind him; he’d forgotten how close it was.</p><p>Ghirahim lets out a distinct ‘ha!’ of amusement. “Nowhere to run. How <em>convenient</em>,” he pauses, and Link feels the cold radiation of his body as Ghirahim gets closer, “to meet you in this narrow corridor.”</p><p><em>Convenient?</em> Link thinks, his mouth clamping up on him. <em>You followed me down here!</em></p><p>He reaches back for his sword, figuring it can speak for him.</p><p>A steely hand grabs his wrist. Abruptly Link is yanked in even closer. His boots skid and trip over the stone floor.</p><p>“What is wrong with your eyes, boy?” That hissing tone unfurls with fiery breath all over his cheeks.</p><p>Link can practically hear the gears turning inside the demon's head. There's a breath far too soft to belong to the fire he feels skirting over his skin, and then his wrist is squeezed tight. Veins are cinched, blood cut off. Link grits his teeth through a pinched groan. He can smell burning metal, he can feel radiating coldness; how can he be so warm on the inside but freezing on the outside?</p><p>“<em>Why</em> won’t you—”</p><p>Link grinds his teeth harder, a strange sound slipping out, ducking his head and trying to pull away.</p><p>A thumb and forefinger grab his chin, pulling his head back up. Link's stomach sinks. He <em>knows</em> his eyes are being searched. And he knows what the demon isn’t going to find.</p><p>The fingers move up towards his cheek.</p><p>“You are <em>impaired</em>,” Ghirahim says, his thumb dragging at the skin just under his left eye.</p><p>“<em>No</em><em>— </em>”</p><p>The demon shatters into a cackling laugh. Link is released, nearly shoved away with the action, and somehow that feels colder than the iron grip of his fingers.</p><p>“Hylia has sent a <em>blind child</em> to do her bidding!” His cackling unhinges, the laughter nearly hysteric. At its mercy Link feels his insides churn in on themselves, as if they can’t bear it. “How positively <em>gracious</em> of her! Oh this will be easy. How had you ever hoped to win?”</p><p>“It doesn't matter,” Link says, not sure why he’s whispering. “I still beat your monster. I still fought my way here.”</p><p>“Doubtless with no aid from your sentient sword,” the demon says.</p><p>Link grips his hands into fists.</p><p>“Did you suspect I had not noticed?” Ghirahim’s cold tone is coy and playful, though the undercurrent of anger never leaves. “I could not imagine <em>why</em> your wretched goddess would create such a being. Now I see it for the necessity it is.”</p><p>A finger more like an icicle finds the very center of Link’s chest. It prods in painfully and then drags up, going for his throat. He tries to fight it but an airy gasp escapes his mouth as if pushed out of him. It’s from fear, he thinks wildly, his head and heartbeat pounding.</p><p>“Skychild,” Ghirahim says, his finger resting against a single corded tendon of Link’s throat. “I take no pleasure in slaughtering the helpless. Do not ask it of me,” he says, and strangely it sounds like he means it — but he can’t. He’s trying to hurt Zelda. If he ever got these cold, lifeless hands on her Link knows without a doubt what he’d do. “You will find no more mercy in me after this. You have run me dry of it, I must say… Go home, Link. Return to your precious perch in the clouds.”</p><p>“No!” He all but shouts. With a swiping motion Link shoves that hand off his throat. Why does he feel like a corpse? Why does his voice sound deathly one second and passionate another? Why does Link <em>care</em> so much that this monster thinks he's weak? He’s trying to hurt Zelda! He’s trying to destroy <em>everything—!</em></p><p>Link <em>will</em> stop him. He’ll cut him down and save everyone. And he doesn’t need to see to do it.</p><p>Ghirahim practically purrs. It's a sound Link's never heard before. A simpering, almost whining noise. “Such <em>defiance</em> ... Simply begging to be stamped out. Very well, boy. You wish to fight? You wish to die at the behest of your blessed goddess?” Before he knows it he's grabbed again, that iron grip around his upper arm. This time he fights off the gasp, the fear. He needs to pull Fi out, he needs to <em>fight— </em> Ghirahim’s voice cracks through with heat and he cackles again before unbound, uncentered, he speaks. “The spirit of your sword does not serve you well. I could take you <em>anywhere</em>, you wretched brat, while it slumbers!”</p><p>The next thing Link knows his world is the darkly bright sound of chiming diamonds. Magic envelopes him, discorporates him, removes him from reality for a moment that leaves his head as blind as his eyes.</p><p>Ghirahim had... he'd...</p><p>Link’s feet hit the floor. Stone. That's all he knows. He has no sense of where he is, whether he's still in the mine or if the demon had taken him thousands of miles in any direction, to anywhere, just like he’d said.</p><p>“This is how helpless you are! How weak!” The echo of his tone is telling: they’re inside, and the ceiling must be fairly low. “Hylia has no right sending you to defeat <em>my Master!”</em></p><p>Link ties to listen for anything else that might tell him where he is. He hears the cries of Spumes, the whirring of time shift stones. Still inside the mine, then, probably. Unless Ghirahim is playing some complicated trick.</p><p>A hand grabs his upper arm again. Link gasps, the sudden touch unexpected, heart shooting into his mouth; Ghirahim drags him forward. Link always pictures someone tall and slender, but the demon is so strong... “Heed my warning, you guileless child. <em>Return to your home</em>.”</p><p>A thumb presses into his bottom lip. It's cold, but his breath is fiery, and his voice drops low; there's no rush of emptiness. There's something else.</p><p>The thumb presses in firmer, indenting his lower lip.</p><p>Ghirahim is quiet for a long moment. Long enough for Link to wonder what he’s doing. The grip on his upper arm tightens.</p><p>“Do not let me find you again,” he says. That thumb swipes across his bottom lip.</p><p>Link is released. Diamonds prick the tips of his ears and his cheeks. They’re cold against his heated skin, and then Ghirahim vanishes.</p><p>Once he’s alone, he sucks back a breath of air that shakes him. Something weird mixes inside his stomach. A sensation like he’s melting. A feeling he doesn't know.</p><p>With shaking hands he pulls out the Goddess Sword.</p><p>“Fi?”</p><p>Her form unfolds, the sound of wind and glass making him feel relieved instantly. <em>Master. Your temperature is not within an acceptable range. </em></p><p>“Where are we?” He asks.</p><p>
  <em>Inside the mining facility, but we appear to be in a new section. Master Link… I understand you wish to be autonomous, but I must insist you make use of me when entering a new area. It is my sole duty to aid you in your quest. </em>
</p><p>He nods, feeling numb. “Sorry.”</p><p>
  <em>Something has happened. </em>
</p><p>“It's alright.”</p><p>
  <em>I sense a 99% chance you are lying. </em>
</p><p>Link shakes his head, readjusting his hat with his free hand. There's no time for anything else. No room for it. Zelda's here and she's in trouble. If Ghirahim thinks he's weak, that's to his own detriment. He'll prove the demon wrong.</p><p>“I'm okay. Just tell me what to do. We need to move.”</p><p>If Ghirahim is here, he’s after Zelda. Link needs to get to her first.</p><p>
  <em>Very well. </em>
</p><p>They make it through the facility in another hour, the trek complicated but doable. Fi refuses to rest within her sheath, so Link carries her for the remainder of their search, happy for her calming company. It would be hard to do this alone, and not just because he’s blind.</p><p>They burst through the door to the mine cart. Fi tells him it's entirely blue, and very pretty, and Link wishes she hadn't, rubbing at his chin while he waits for the cart to cross the track. Finally they enter the temple. Link’s heart is racing, the thought of her voice overtaking him until—</p><p> —harp music plays, some sort of machine clicking, it must be big to make a noise like that, what—</p><p>“Link!”</p><p>His face breaks into a desperate smile.</p><p><em>Master, take care. </em> Fi speaks in his head before he can take a single step. <em>There is a dropoff in front of you. Turn left, six paces, then turn right. This will lead you to her. </em></p><p>Link is already moving before she finishes. He can hear Zelda running too, the gentle sound of her laughter, the warmth that comes from years and years of hearing it spreading through him.</p><p>An explosion of stone halts them both. He hears Zelda shout in surprise. The explosion shakes the ground, knocking Link back on his feet.</p><p>
  <em> Master Link! </em>
</p><p>A cackling cry strikes through the air above him. He knows the shout as soon as he hears it.</p><p>A feeling worse than guilt eats Link from the inside out.</p><p>Had he led the demon here?</p><p>Magic rushes in front of him, hot and familiar; he reaches out to grab it, and it stings.</p><p>“Zelda?” he calls out, wondering if she’s okay. He hadn’t heard her scream. If Ghirahim had snached her up Link knows she would be screaming.</p><p>“Since I know you cannot see it, boy, I will be polite and explain it to you.” Ghirahim’s voice comes from in front of him, but that stinging magic must be between them. Link touches it again. It bites at his fingers. “You're trapped behind a pretty little barrier of mine. So stunning; a pity you can't glean its golden splendor.” A pulse of magic beats against his face. “Stay back there like a good little pup.”</p><p>Link grips at his sword. Can he jump? Can't he <em>try?</em> Could it really hurt to try and reach her, finally?</p><p>“Stay back, demon!” He hears the Goddess’s guardian shout.</p><p>Zelda’s not on her own. It would be smart, Link knows, to wait until the Ghirahim is distracted.</p><p>Fi explains what happens next. Ghirahim charges for Zelda, her guardian meets him in an explosion of light he can’t see and magic he can feel.</p><p>“Quickly your grace, to the gate!”</p><p>Link hears her running, and then her voice calling to him. “Link! Here! You'll need this where you're going!”</p><p>Instinctively he holds his hands out. Something hard hits him in the chest, but he catches it with fumbling fingers.</p><p>“Go! Now!” the guardian shouts.</p><p><em>The demon known as Ghirahim has broken the guard's seal </em>, Fi explains, <em>Master, you must—</em></p><p>He's already running. The barrier had dropped, maybe Ghiahim had been distracted or maybe there was a time limit to the magic. He doesn’t stop to ask. Link listens hard for the hushed sound of his quiet manic laughter and he leaps, praying to Hylia he meets his mark.</p><p>His sword swipes through air.</p><p>Link feels the rush of wind, can smell steel and fire and feel that hollow nothingness reaching out. He knows Ghirahim had jumped away. Link hears him land neatly on the stone, maybe about seven feet in front of him.</p><p>“...Link,” the guardian says, sounding surprised.</p><p>He doesn't give himself time to care. “Go!”</p><p>“You have my thanks,” she says, shifting to her feet, “I will leave him to you.”</p><p>He hears her run, hears her tell him to visit the old woman for answers, hears Zelda shouting his name and promising him they'll meet again.</p><p>He doesn't turn his focus away from the demon.</p><p>Not now, not ever. Not until he’s gone.</p><p>Last, he hears an explosion.</p><p>
  <em> The Goddess’s guardian has destroyed the gate. </em>
</p><p>Still Link doesn't turn around. His heart aches, cut off from his best friend completely, where is she now?</p><p>“Now you've done it, Link!” The demon’s tone sounds brittle, crazed and distressed. Link can hardly believe it compared to the lowly threatening tone he knows Ghirahim is capable of, can hardly believe it's the same man. <em>Not a man</em> , he thinks with a glare, tightening his grip on his sword. <em>A demon</em>. “I blame myself! I should have gutted you inside the mines. But instead I was... soft. A momentary lapse in judgement, I assure you.”</p><p>Link readies himself for the fight he knows will come.</p><p>“I would take pleasure in punishing you, but I've no time for recreation!”</p><p>He can hear the demon moving, clothes whipping in the wind, diamonds chiming. He's <em>furious.</em> Link had ruined Ghirahim’s plans, he’d kept Zelda out of his reach, and now the demon is boiling.</p><p>The hero can't help the small smirk that slips across his mouth.</p><p>“Blind or not, boy, next time we meet I will do MORE than beat you senseless! I’ll make the affair so excruciating you will deafen yourself with the sound of your own screams!”</p><p>Link lets the smirk eat up half his face. “Sure you will,” he says, the confident words slipping out unbidden.</p><p><em>Master Link.</em> Fi’s glassy tone is slightly alarmed as it echoes inside his head. <em>I must continue to insist against antagonizing this demon.</em></p><p>Ghirahim growls, some deep-rooted anger like Link’s never heard. There’s none of that emptiness. All passion, all real, all <em>alive</em>. He raises his head up high, making sure his smirk is visible, squaring shoulders.</p><p>“Do not TEST me boy!” The demon roars, his words loud and lowly furious all at once. “You are lucky I have more important things to do than make a corpse of you.”</p><p>To his surprise, Link hears the now-familiar sound of diamonds chiming. Ghirahim is gone.</p><p>He listens hard for any remaining dark chimes, for a manic cackle, searching for that lifeless feeling…</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>He's really gone.</p><p>The blond lets out a breath, nearly collapsing on its exhale. Adrenaline gone from him, Link feels the full force of his tired body. Between traversing the desert and this mine for well over twelves hours, Ghirahim, hearing Zelda’s voice and her desperate promise and then losing her again—and then <em>Ghirahim—</em></p><p>That guardian has her; whatever’s going on, Zelda is alive. Laughing weakly to himself, Link collapses onto the stone floor.</p><p><em>Master.</em> Fi, still clutched in his hand, speaks inside his head. <em>Are you alright? I do not sense any physical injuries. </em></p><p>“I’m good.”</p><p>Link feels his mouth slip up into a smile, one he’s never made before. It isn’t happy. It’s wry, and weightless, and slack-jawed. <em>Sure you will.</em> Where had that come from? It made the demon growl; Link doesn’t think he’s ever made anyone growl in his life.</p><p>He rubs at his eyes, ready to sleep for a week.</p><p>
  <em> It appears Mistress Zelda and the Goddess’s guardian disappeared through a gate of some sort. It is now in ruins. We should heed her words and return to the old woman at once, Master. </em>
</p><p>“Yeah,” he says.</p><p>They head back out through the mining facility, enemies dead and the way clear. It shouldn’t take him long to get out, and then he can call his loftwing…</p><p>
  <em>The moment he touched it light had filled his head some red gnarly lightning-like image imprinting in his mind because he can't see but this power is something greater than sight— </em>
</p><p>White light bleeds into his eyes, a sonorous voice splitting the slight crack that lets it all in.</p><p>
  <em> I imagine life in the sky is quite… repressed. </em>
</p><p>But there had been a sword—</p><p>
  <em> Chosen Hero of Legend, you have done well to collect these orbs. Your spirit grows stronger yet. </em>
</p><p>“Sure you will.”</p><p>
  <em> GET UP! </em>
</p><p>Link shudders as his eyes flare open, dust from the ruins coating his throat and making him cough. For a blurry moment he’s disorientated with sight. The mounting statue of the Goddess hanging over him seems to bend and shift, each grain in the stone seems finely detailed. <em>Everything</em> seems detailed. His eyelids flutter. It’s like he hasn’t seen in a thousand years.</p><p>He fights to remember everything. Thumb on his bottom lip, the mining facility, another Temple of Time, a voice like clinking glass – <em>Fi!</em> her name was Fi – she called him ‘Master,’ and then… something about an Academy, a gate, and Ghirahim…  he remembers everything about the demon, like always.</p><p>
  <em>Sure you will.</em>
</p><p>Link hears metal clanking behind him: the familiar sound of fighting.</p><p>Acting on instinct, even with a hazy head, he rises to his feet in a rush.</p><p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Ghirahim hisses, ducking under yet another swing of the strange blue sword. He had been watching their surroundings idly from within his blade, seething that this idiotic whelp would leave himself so unguarded, so openly defenceless – though he should not have been surprised. This iteration is nothing if not overly trusting.</p><p>Naturally they had been attacked. What other possible outcome could there have been? The demon could laugh at it all. And the useless Hylian had placed himself within his goddess’s divine bonds, an area Ghirahim could not hope to breach.</p><p>No matter. All he need do is defeat these warriors before they gain entrance. He had been unsure of the guards they’d run from weeks ago and had not gleaned enough of the village to realize – yet the two warriors before him were unmistakably of the goddess’s herd. How tiring. Ghirahim could have gone the rest of forever without another sheikah to deal with.</p><p>These gaudy blue swords are a new addition, however.</p><p>He does not yell for the boy. Ghirahim would never degrade himself by calling for his charge. No sword worth half its weight in steel would, and he is better than that by far.</p><p>He sends out flying daggers with a snap of gloved fingers. The warriors are wonderfully alarmed and dodge his onslaught by a fraction of a hair. It seems the sheikah of this age are less efficient than that guardian of the goddess had been. How trite. The least they could offer him is a challenge.</p><p>Licking his saber, Ghirahim waits impatiently for one of them to strike.</p><p>Instead, he feels the sweet slip of hands over his hilt.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Link picks up Ghirahim’s blade, his breaths heavy and his eyes still blurry. It doesn’t matter. He’s done this with his eyes shut, and he—</p><p>
  <em> I do not need your help. </em>
</p><p>“I don’t care!” Link shouts, tired and strungout and confused. Ghirahim had returned to the sword but he couldn't tell when. The blond had seen him standing in front of the gaping, broken entrance to the temple, throwing black knives at two sheikah warriors, and he’d ran.</p><p>They’re carrying the same swords the guardians in the shrines do.</p><p>
  <em> Did you enjoy your playtime with your puerile goddess? </em>
</p><p>“Shut up, just shut up,” he says under his breath. His head feels full of that burning power, veins blackening with it; and it’s <em>relieving</em>. If Link wasn’t so disorientated from the vision, if he wasn’t so angry at this stupid sword, he might’ve sighed.</p><p>
  <em> I assure you I could have handled this on my own. </em>
</p><p>“Go ahead then!” he shouts, searching for a way around the sheikah. He won’t hurt them. They’re people, and enough people have died at his hands.</p><p>
  <em> You will not run from another fight! </em>
</p><p>To Link’s horror the sword in his hands tugs him towards the warriors. He tries to dig his heels into the ground, groaning as he strains to move in the opposite direction. “Stop it!”</p><p>
  <em>None who wield my blade will—</em>
</p><p>Link grunts loudly, pulling with everything he’s got, stitches popping open. “Stop!”</p><p>The sheikah are getting closer, honed in on him and running.</p><p>“You’re impossible!” Link says. “I don’t understand you. <em>What— </em>”</p><p>
  <em>I never claimed you would. </em>
</p><p>“Why won’t you tell me anything?”</p><p>
  <em>What is there to tell? </em>
</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” he pleads, his eyes slamming shut and his sweat-lined grip slipping from a black hilt. “We have t—”</p><p>He doesn’t get to finish. The sheikah are on him, both with blue swords swung back and ready to strike. Link feels the demon relinquish control of his sword; only because he knows now that Link will have no choice. Teeth grinding, the hero shouts as he swings the black blade up, stopping two blue ones in a harsh parry.</p><p>A surge of blue energy slips over Ghirahim’s blade. It ripples up and down black steel, glowing against Link’s face in snakes of wild blue light.</p><p>The gem flickers, and its crimson glow dies.</p><p>Link stares at a black diamond, panting.</p><p>It’s colourless. Lightless. A cold feeling creeps in through his palms. Empty.</p><p>“No,” he says, the word more of a crack of sound than anything.</p><p>“Give us the sword, hero, and we will let you be,” one of the sheikah says, her hand outstretched.</p><p>Link runs.</p><p>With shaking hands he sets Ghirahim on his back, the magic still clicking him into place. He doesn't think, not past connecting his feet to the grass and putting as much distance between Ghirahim and those blue swords as he can. The shrines hurt him – they’re sheikah in origin, just like those weapons, why doesn't Link have any forthought? Why hadn’t he figured this out sooner? If he used to be some sort of highly skilled knight entrusted with protecting the Princess of Hyrule then why is he so <em>bad</em> at all of this? Why does everyone he cares about end up <em>dead?</em></p><p>The sword at his back is freezing. He tries not to think about an iron grip on his upper arm, a thumb on his bottom lip.</p><p>Link leaps off the edge of the temple, gliding down towards grassland dotted with silver-barked birch trees. They’re dispersed scantly across the small clearing. There’s a cabin, the one the King had used while disguising himself as an old man. It’s early evening.</p><p>Link doesn't notice any of it, searching for a nook to hide in.</p><p>His feet hit the ground. The cabin would be too obvious. He trips into a run, lungs expanding beyond their limits, not daring to look back.</p><p>He slips himself inside the deep fissure of some ruins, the sun blotting out and his shredded, sewn back dragging against stone as he slides down. Link holds the sword in his hands. Ice meets his palms.</p><p>He listens. No sounds of footsteps. No clinking of metal armor pieces.</p><p>Nothing but singing birds and droning bugs and the distant shrieks of bokoblins.</p><p>The sword, resting between Link’s bent knees and against his bare chest, is so cold he shivers.</p><p>“Ghirahim.” He doesn’t understand his own voice. It barely sounds like his own voice. Worry threaded through it too tightly for his resurrected heart to hold.</p><p>
  <em>...more of your voice first thing...</em>
</p><p>The gem shines, blinking into brilliant blue.</p><p>Link sighs – both in relief, and complete exhaustion.</p><p>Warmth unfolds between his thighs and hands and along his shoulder. The blade is pressed up against him; held along his whole body. Lifting the hilt with both hands, he stretches his legs out straight and rests the sword on top of his thighs instead.</p><p>Whatever magic the sheikah have, the demon is clearly susceptible to it. They can’t fight anymore… Link can’t keep…</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p><em>You RAN!</em> The demon hisses in his head, incredulous and angry and offended, all of that, always, always. <em>You pathetic WHELP!</em></p><p>All of Link’s relief vanishes like smoke. He grinds his teeth, anger cracking up and down his spine. “I ran to save you!”</p><p>
  <em>I do not require your tired heroics!</em>
</p><p>“You– You went <em>cold!”</em> he cries, eyes wide and trained on black steel, blood ringing in his ears. “You were unconscious. Your stupid diamond went out. <em>What</em> do you—”</p><p>
  <em> Cease your sputtering inanity, boy. I have never been unconscious in all the millennia of my life! </em>
</p><p>Link growls through his teeth. “<em>Ghirahim—</em>”</p><p>
  <em>You will return to those sheikah and finish this battle! I will suffer no longer under your half-hearted grip. </em>
</p><p>“My—”</p><p>
  <em>And once they are subdued I suggest we part ways. There is no need of this. Your goddess does not wish for such a debauched union. Your hands make me ill, besides. </em>
</p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>,” Link breathes, his chest heaving through the words, his shoulders shaking. “Just shut up. Just for a second stop ringing in my head and let me <em>think</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>I had not know you were capable of su—</em>
</p><p>A dull <em>SMACK!</em> cuts the demon short. Link slams a hand flat down over the red gem fluttering up at him.</p><p>He holds his hand up, palm stinging, stunned.</p><p>But only for a second.</p><p>
  <em>YOU STRUCK ME!</em>
</p><p>Link glares down at the sword over his thighs, his nerves overworn and mind twirling in a flurry like a hailstorm. He curls his stinging hand into a fist and sets this stiffly on the grass under him.</p><p>“It's not like you've never hurt me!”</p><p>
  <em>HOW DARE— </em>
</p><p>Link cuts him off. “No! Shut up! Lay there like the piece of scrap metal you are and listen to me!”</p><p>
  <em>SCRAP—</em>
</p><p>“You have no idea what I’ve been through!” His voice is louder than he thinks it's ever been. Bent over the black blade in his lap, Link’s head goes foggy as a desperate feeling takes over. “I’m trying so hard to make this work! Why are you trying so hard to– <em>to make it hard?</em> Everything else is already against us.” His tone falls to a scratching whisper, “Everything.”</p><p>Slowly he lets out a breath that stutters, all the air in his lungs too much to hold. No reply slips through his head.</p><p>Link closes his eyes; his hair had fallen into his face anyway. “The shrines, the Goddess, the people I’m trying to save.” His eyes are wet with angry tears, with frustration at half-remembered facts, at not understanding anything. “You’re really not my sword,” he says.</p><p>He rubs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, dispelling the wetness so no tears can fall. Ghirahim would just call him weak. But if caring makes him weak, if trying to save everyone makes him pathetic and sentimental and useless, then he is, he’s weak, he’ll take the label gladly.</p><p>“You’re right. No one is forcing me,” Link says, tiredness replacing everything else. “If you don’t want this… if you don’t want to do this...” He drops his hand from his face and lets the back of his head slump against the ruins behind him. “...then <em>go</em>.” He opens his eyes up to the sky, pinks and blues and greens above colouring it all, and he wishes he were up there, doesn’t know why. “Please go. Because I don’t want this. Not like this.”</p><p>Water slides down his face, heading towards his pointed ears because he’s still looking up. He lets it fall. He’ll be alone in a minute, anyway, and Link isn't ashamed of feeling things, no matter how hard it hits him when he does.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Ghirahim can count the number of times he has been effectively silenced into submission on one hand. He refuses to dwell on the fact. It had largely been Demise and that is not a comparison he wishes, nor needs, to make.</p><p>Perhaps because his blade had been heated all day, perhaps because it had been mutilated by some unknown magic, or perhaps because sightful eyes are strangely wet with falling tears… He cannot help but wonder. Even here, even in this present, even with this <em>imitation</em> , the demon often revels in his ability to get beneath peach skin. To <em>affect</em> Link beyond compare. To watch his face twist with hot anger, with fierce defiance, or with the thrill of combat. To watch him blush.</p><p>But this…</p><p>What <em>purpose</em> is there, if there had been no intent on Ghirahim’s part to cause the reaction?</p><p>He has remained at this scion’s back for these two fortnights, relinquishing himself to his will as a swordsman, teased him relentlessly, practically fawned for his attention. He is not blind to the catalyst of such behaviour. There is a reason he had woken up and immediately assumed the Skyloft hero had been with him.</p><p>Those hands feel identical. They are the same to the point of confusion. And although it would be pertinent to do so, Ghirahim cannot accept the possibility of never feeling them again, even in this frustrated state of falsivity, even as he grows treacherously accustomed to the differences that are present: his sun-golden hair, his fumbling speech, the straight lines of his ears where the other’s had been curved, his functional eyes.</p><p>His irritating<b>,</b> unfathomable patience.</p><p>Unworthy of it as he is.</p><p>
  <em>Why are you trying so hard to– to make this hard? </em>
</p><p>Had Ghirahim not wondered the same about his goddess?</p><p>Humility rots him to the very core of his blade.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Still staring up at the colourful sky, Link waits for a thrashing of diamonds to whisk this sword and spirit away. Ghirahim hates weakness. He’d made that clear from the start. And Link had practically fallen apart, shouting and crying and begging.</p><p>Closing his eyes, he thinks of a thumb on his lower lip, of white gloved hands gripping at the straps across his chest, and tries to let them go.</p><p>After so much feeling his face won’t work, his words won't work; he knows he’s shutting down and Link just lets it happen. He opens his eyes and rests his gaze upwards, unmoving. His whole body goes numb.</p><p>
  <em>Do you suppose I would remain at your back if I did not desire to be there?</em>
</p><p>He doesn't reply. He barely hears it. Vaguely he registered the sound of chiming diamonds. Magenta and gold and black flash inside his mind’s eye, a reactionary image imprinted on his brain.</p><p>A voice is talking, not ringing through his head, but Link doesn’t hear it. It would be easier to do what he needs to do if he always felt like this. Detached. Drifting. He could really be nothing but a vessel for action, in the most literal sense, and he’d be able to go on, unmoved from his resolve.... He would succeed. Without fear to hold him back, without all of these feelings and confusion and without the guilt...</p><p>Without feeling anything, the weight of his destiny, his dead unremembered friends, this sword – it couldn’t get to him if he just felt nothing at all.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Kneeling beside the Hylian, Ghirahim stares. His face has affected a placidity which recalls their night spent in that blue bird’s home. This blankness, however, is far more… sterile. There is no luster, no ounce of emotion persisting, no half-formed twisted smile attempting to hide behind a bashful hand or within the act of turning away. Sun-kissed cheeks appear nearly ashen. Sucked dry of their colour. Hollowed out, feeling sifted, negated, unfavourably uncanny on one whose commonplace is found <em>never</em> in such indifference but instead flowering through feelings, one after another, allowing them to lead.</p><p>Ghirahim frowns.</p><p>“You said something happened to my blade,” he says, peering narrowly at the swordsman, still crouched beside him. “To alter it.”</p><p>Link shrugs, his eyes falling shut.</p><p>The demon’s gaze narrows further. “Tell it to me once more.”</p><p>He shakes his head.</p><p>“What is <em>wrong</em> with you!” Ghirahim snaps, his hands coiling, his body begging for contorting movement, “What is this?”</p><p>Link shrugs again.</p><p>“<em>Speak!”</em></p><p>Of course the useless Hylian does not. He merely sits as he is, head pressed back against stone, face towards the ever-darkening sky and bereft of expression. Ghirahim seethes, seeping back a harsh, thin wisp of cooling air.</p><p>One white gloved hand reaches out, targeting the heavy black leather across his bare chest; he sees the gored slice from the lynel: stitched awfully, blaring red. His white glove is no more than a centimeter from black straps when the demon recalls two calloused hands pushing him away. Assuredly, absolutely, his sightful, sky-blue eyes filled to the brim with rejection.</p><p>Ghirahim’s bottom lip curls. He retracts his hand.</p><p>“Boy,” he snaps, his tone dropping low and cold as a new moon, “I will not stand for this frailty.” The hand that had retracted makes instead for sunblond hair. Ghirahim means to grasp it harshly, to shake him from this comatose state, but his hold is anything but harsh. It is incomprehensibly <em>soft</em>. He seethes again and takes his hand back once more. Baring his teeth, leaning in close, he says, “Whatever is ailing you, <em>deal</em> with it so we may move on.”</p><p>That blank face effects no change, no subtle shift in motion, no sudden brightness despite the faint gasp Ghirahim’s momentary touch had elicited.</p><p>“You insufferable, <em>incomprehensible— </em>” he scowls, his very words dying in a frustrated growl that claws up his throat gutturally. His skin crawls with the need to sink his claws in – his body convulses in one elongating wave, his spine contorting, his very soul demanding naught but to tear and devour and then, in a flurry of furious, indescribable rage, Ghirahim snaps his fingers.</p><p>The sound of his clattering diamonds is loud within the stone confines of these small, crumbling ruins.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Link hears the diamonds again.</p><p>The sword on his lap flares with warmth.</p><p>And he waits. He waits for the sword to disappear, for another current of dark chimes to echo, for it to be the last time he hears it.</p><p>Frogs croak in the small pond near the ruins. Bokoblins screech across the clearing, horses are galloping somewhere below the Plateau. The sky grows darker. He can see the fading light through his eyelids. Link seems to sink into the blossoming darkness, forgetting his own sense of self further, losing his mind to the crawling night. He slumps, his hands resting useless at his sides, his head lulling down against one shoulder.</p><p>Cold steel on his lap lifts away to nothing, his legs emptied of all that weight, and finally he hears the chime of diamonds that means he is alone.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Link wakes up the next morning to a stiff and aching back. He’s no stranger to cramped sleeping arrangements – he’s spent more than one night hauled inside rock crevices, especially in Death Mountain. One night cramped up against a stone wall shouldn’t make him this stiff.</p><p>He groans as he wakes up. His head throbs. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open.</p><p>Mid-morning. He’d overslept. Probably needed it. Zelda told him not to rush. She told him he’d have to take his time but he wants to save her, he’d taken his time for a hundred years, how many people has the calamity killed while he’d been busy sleeping, how can he justify even a single night of sleep?</p><p>He lets his mind race with these thoughts, unfolding in him like a virus, because his lap is empty, his back is empty, his hands are empty.</p><p>Link knew he would wake up alone. He just didn’t expect it to hurt, had hoped his numb state would last long enough for him not to feel anything.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he says to himself, not used to talking out loud but something needs to ground him – what if this is the start to all those visions? What if separating forces Ghirahim to go back to Ganon and Link had just lost him–? the Goddess Statues had accepted the spirit orbs; there's nothing wrong with his soul. There's no reason to separate but he’d been so tired of fighting him the whole way, of being played around with, of not being… of being… “It’s okay.”</p><p>He has to get up. He has to move. It doesn’t matter.</p><p>Pulling his hair back into its tie, Link tries to stand but his legs refuse to hold him.</p><p>“You can’t. You can’t sit here.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He’s not coming back.”</p><p>“I am <em>insulted</em>,” comes a playfully dark tone, dramatic and lilting as always. Link jumps where he's sat. “Do you truly believe my loyalties to be so easily swayed?”</p><p>He blinks six times exactly, half expecting what he sees to be a mirage. Maybe he’s dreaming. </p><p>But Ghirahim is standing in an open space between two stone walls, one hand on his jutted hip and the other twirling as he speaks. His cloak is absent. His white suit shines in sunlight.</p><p>“Your surprised expression insults me further,” Ghirahim says, looking with disinterest at one gloved hand. “Cease your gawking, hero.”</p><p>“Where...” Link’s voice croaks. “Where did you go?”</p><p>“Your ineptitude last night gave me need for carnage, and the snore of bokoblins causes unrest in me regardless. I gathered these for you, as you seem to require them for some unknown purpose.” From a cloud of black diamonds a handful of bokoblin horns drops unceremoniously onto the grass in front of him. “There are more scattered just outside, if you wish to gather them. I will not do it for you.” Following this, Ghirahim snaps his fingers, sending his sword to Link’s back.</p><p>The demon stays standing in the sunlight.</p><p>“If you have returned fully to your usual self, then might I suggest we be off?”</p><p>“Wh…”</p><p>Another snap of white fingers has the sword at his back flaring with heat, Ghirahim vanishing inside it.</p><p>Unsure what else to do – disbelief clouding him – he only sits there on the grass, hidden in ruins.</p><p>“Thank you,” Link says eventually, pulling the slate from his hip to scan the horns into its inventory. He needs to move. To do something.</p><p>The demon doesn't reply.</p><p>Stunned, Link stands and stumbles out into the field. There are countless horns scattered along the grass. Silent and confused, confused at the warmth on his back, at the memories in his head, at the fight they’d had last night and the one climbing up the wall… Link picks up horns, unsure what else to do.</p><p>
  <em>There is information I must impart to you. I will not repeat myself, so listen well. </em>
</p><p>Link nods, crouched down in the grass while he gathers horns with the slate.</p><p>
  <em>I do not refer to your Ganon as ‘Master’ because I am fond of doing so. I do not have a choice. </em>
</p><p>Link listens to the demon’s low whispers in his head. He’s tired like he always is after an episode like that — wrung out from being overwhelmed. But he listens.</p><p>
  <em>Ancient magic binds my blade to him. We are Master and sword. </em>
</p><p>Link opens his mouth, narrowing his eyes down at a single horn, his fingers just shy of it. No sound comes out for a moment. But he forces it. His hand grasps white ivory as he speaks.</p><p>“He… owns you?”</p><p>Link can feel the disgust from Ghirahim’s tone, clear even in the single word:</p><p>
  <em>Yes. </em>
</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>
  <em>A great deal. </em>
</p><p>Link frowns, standing up and heading towards the next pile of horns.</p><p>“You shouldn’t have gone fighting on your own,” he says, “That guardian sword knocked you out.”</p><p>
  <em>Boy, I am attempting to tell you something not only of great importance, but deeply private. Your sentimentality can wait. </em>
</p><p>Link doesn’t reply. He does just that – he waits.</p><p>
  <em>I am bound to servitude. And although I had presumed said bond weakened to the point of ineffectiveness, perhaps that is not quite the case. </em>
</p><p>“Oh,” Link says, following a dry swallow.</p><p><em>You said my blade returned to you altered. What </em>precisely<em> happened?</em></p><p>He checks the inventory on the slate, just for something to distract his racing heart. He has fifty-two horns. There are still more on the small field to gather.</p><p>“We defeated the blight, and freed Medoh – you can see the red light in the sky,” he nods up towards it mid-sentence, “Medoh is aimed at Ganon. So we did that. But you cracked. And then you… acted weird.”</p><p>
  <em>Greater specificity would be prudent. What, exactly, do you mean by ‘weird’? </em>
</p><p>Link takes a moment to arrange his words, and is surprised not to be snapped at for taking his time. “I think you lose control of yourself, when we’re near Ganon, or his blights,” he says, heading towards the cabin to gather the last of the horns. “And… after you cracked, you said a lot of crazy stuff. I didn’t want to use you to fight, but you kept putting yourself in my hands, and then during one fight… you shattered, like I said. I went back to the Lost Woods. That’s where I found you the first time and I… I don’t know why, I just went. You weren't there but… the blood moon brought you back.”</p><p>
  <em>Blood moon? </em>
</p><p>“I think it’s like… Ganon’s calamity taking over? It turns the moon red, and brings all of his monsters back.”</p><p>
  <em> ...I see. </em>
</p><p>“Ghirahim.” Link swallows, a heaviness resting in his stomach. “I… I didn’t do anything to your sword. I wouldn’t.”</p><p><em>Yes yes I know, you are hardly the type for trickery.</em> A soft, chiming sigh washes through his head. <em>We can safely assume this will happen again, then. We have two more of these ‘blights’ to destroy, correct?</em></p><p>“You’re… You’re really staying?”</p><p><em>So sentimental in the mornings… What sort of face is that?</em> Link stops gathering horns, stuck listening to ringing in his ears. <em>I told you last night, did I not?</em></p><p>“I didn’t hear you.”</p><p>
  <em>I will not repeat myself. </em>
</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>
  <em>Repetition is aggravating at its best. </em>
</p><p>“No. Not that.” Link stains to continue, but forces the words out, needing to hear the answer. “Why are you staying?”</p><p>There is a long pause before the demon replies.</p><p>
  <em>You are not… an abhorrent swordsman. At times. And you show signs of continued improvement. Is that not enough of a reason? </em>
</p><p>Link grins. He doesn’t push it.</p><p>
  <em>This expression is more deranged than the last. Your face is intolerable. </em>
</p><p>He laughs, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, trying to stamp the sound out, the smile too. But his chest feels warm. So does his back. “That was a compliment,” Link says.</p><p>
  <em>Do not let it go to your head, you senseless Hylian. </em>
</p><p>“I was thinking…” he starts, readjusting the belts across his chest and facing the edge of the Plateau, facing the vast wilds of Hyrule. “I could get the master sword, and use it for the blights. Only for them, so—”</p><p>
  <em>No. </em>
</p><p>“But...”</p><p><em>Link</em>. Ghirahim pauses after his name like he hadn’t meant to say it. <em>I do not care if it kills me, I will be the one to put an end to Demise.</em></p><p>“If just attacking <em>part</em> of him breaks you…”</p><p>
  <em>I do not care. I returned, did I not? If you take any other sword to battle, if you drop me, if you discard me due to your weak sentimentality… I will bleed you dry. </em>
</p><p>Link sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. A small smirk tugs at his lips. “Sure you will,” he says, the words coming out unbidden.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. (a note about updates)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hi everyone! I'm not a big fan of posting a new chapter as a way to include an author's note, but I'm so tired and so sad I just don't care. </p><p>So... Good news is, I don't have carpal tunnel. I do, however, have tendonitis.</p><p>As much as I don't want to, I have to take a break from trying to post new chapters of this story. I'm really heartbroken... I was having so much fun working on this, and updating regularly, and writing about these two. But realistically, the pressure to keep up with the schedule... it's too much.</p><p>Chapter 12 is done, and so is 13.... So I will come back and update some day for sure. But I just can't do it right now. Tentatively, I want to say I'll post in April. </p><p>Thank you so much for everyone who reads this. Even though the ship isn't super popular, I really love working on it. Their dynamic is really fun to explore through prose. I'm really really sad...😭 Thank you so much for all the nice comments, I reread them all the time. I'm already crying trying to say all this. I'm really frustrated that I have to stop, but I'm hoping if I take a break now I'll be better sooner.</p><p>I just think it's safer, for me, for now, if I stop posting. I really will come back at the latest in April. I hope you will all come back when I update. Feel free to come talk to me on tumblr. Thank you again T-T</p><p><br/>
Mia</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Yiga</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have so many things to say! April 29 marks the one year anniversary for this story. Cheers! I can't believe it...</p>
<p>I wouldn’t have survived the last 6 months without Alpaca and Tonic. My hands stopped working, couldn’t even brush my hair or hold a phone… it wasn’t good. These two made it easier. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart ❤</p>
<p>Tonic has some amazing ghiralink art. This one is one of my favourites and i selfishly pretend it's from this fic ;v; <a href="https://swordkisses.tumblr.com/post/639321790872682496/when-you-love-your-sword-but-hes-really">[when you love your sword but he’s really annoying……]</a></p>
<p>Claire drew a scene from chapter 2, one of my favourite scenes, please go check it out. It’s so cUTE: <a href="https://laptiteyaoiste.tumblr.com/post/640052613062311936/miasunri-greatfairymia-another-drawing-of-your">[i am here, you foolish hero]</a></p>
<p>Shimokolade drew a scene from my other ghiralink fic (Link's outfit is so !!!): <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/shimokolade/art/Withheld-874334048">[withheld]</a></p>
<p>Updates will be every 2 months or so. I am not allowed to write for 40hrs a week anymore. And if you use your hands – if you draw, sew, type, whatever – please please PLEASE take breaks.</p>
<p>Thank you for all the support on the update I posted previously. It meant a lot to me. I reread them often while I was healing :’)</p>
<p>Last, thank you for reading! </p>
<p>Here we goooo!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Southward bound, Link leaps from the parapet of the ruins he’d crumpled down against last night. His shoulders are held high and jaw is tight with typical persistent focus. As Ghirahim regards the concentrated stance he finds no trace of the trepidatious mess the hero had been last night. Odd, how quick the alteration had been when there has been no real change in his destiny or task.   </p>
<p>“We have to head south,” Link says as he glides them against the prevailing wind. Ghirahim, securely upon his back, has no difficulty hearing his voice in the sky.   </p>
<p>When his boots land on the ground, the glider is folded away into that contraption on his hip Ghirahim now knows is called a ‘slate.’ He remains perfectly unaware of its exact purpose — though evidently it is to serve the goddess, as all of her tools do.   </p>
<p>Link turns to face the wind. He pulls the very contraption out, pads of rough fingers changing glassy, inexplicable screens in ways that has Ghirahim itching with inquiries, though he does not voice them.    </p>
<p>Instead he occupies himself with surveying their surroundings. Behind them still, like grim promises looming along their path, are the castle and the mountain. Ghirahim analyzes them for longer than he would readily admit. The violet vapours of his Master, altered as they are over the centuries, glimmer in a way the demon is forced to confess catches the eye of his gem. Demise had always been powerful. Was that not the reason Ghirahim had fallen into servitude? The mountain, then, proudly red and gnarling with rock, is seemingly but a few feet from the malignant crawl of Demise. That mountain is where he may very well die — and also where Link had claimed those hot springs boiled. Still the castle draws the demon’s attention in once more. Its bulbous suppuration of magic thrashes into the skyline. Its quiet call is never quite gone from him. Never entirely absent.    </p>
<p>He should have realized, sooner. He is furious with himself that he had not.    </p>
<p>Link trudges on and to the demon’s astonishment once more he is given the rare gift of continued speech. “We’ll head south to here,” he says, drawing a finger over a glassy map towards a place cited along the screen as the ‘Faron Grasslands.’ How strange that the titles are the same but the history seemingly altered or forgotten altogether. “Then around Lake Hylia.” The pacing of his booted steps is steadfast, rocking the sword behind him gently as he walks. His blue eyes are turned down toward that peculiar ‘slate’ in his hands. “And then east, all the way to here,”  he continues. This time his finger lands on a marker with no map to distinguish the region. “I’ve never been out that way.” His face works itself into a contemplative frown.   </p>
<p>A shiver courses down a peach spine; courses down three gashed claw marks newly wrapped just that morning and once more hidden. “Okay?” Link asks, turning his gaze back as he often does, although staring at his hilt holds little purpose.   </p>
<p>
  <em>I suppose.   </em>
</p>
<p>Link nods, somewhat absently, distracted for a moment as a crimson dragonfly whizzes by a single elongated ear. His eyes snap forward again to focus after a silence that perhaps goes on too long, but which Ghirahim, evidently, finds himself growing accustomed to. It is to the point of rhythmic mundanity. He hardly notices the awkward pause.    </p>
<p>“We’ll have to watch out for sheikah,” the hero says, alarmingly talkative today, especially considering the events of the evening prior.   </p>
<p>It has not been more than eight hours since last night’s little episode, yet the Hylian is leaking words like a punctured dam. What had the difference been? The cause for this course?   </p>
<p>“They’ll be all over this region.”</p>
<p>
  <em> Who?   </em>
</p>
<p>“The sheika,” he says, apparently in repetition. “Are you listening?”  </p>
<p>Ghirahim chimes in his head, sure that it is both loud and deeply toned enough to be felt by his teeth. <em>You are chattering like a songbird. Normally your verbal pacing is more akin to a snail.</em></p>
<p>“You complain when I don’t talk, and now you’re complaining that I talk too much.” Link huffs. “You’re kind of high-maintenance.”    </p>
<p>The demon chimes in his head once more, this time sharper. Link only grins as if he’s won something, or as if the sound were somehow pleasant. Ghirahim knows it cannot be.   </p>
<p>
  <em>Doubtless our escapades alerted these sheikah to our presence.   </em>
</p>
<p>“Yeah. They can see Medoh from Kakariko for sure.”  </p>
<p>The hero continues his trek, slate slipped seamlessly against his hip. A patterned, clanking noise comes with each step of his feet. Silence overtakes them as they continue on yet this is not at all new. Certainly not. Paths upon paths had been walked in this indelible silence. Familiar gait, rolling muscles along shoulders – again somehow bare. Shifting skin across his back, the cord of his spine prominent and pressing against dark steel along the same spots as always. It has been over a month, Ghirahim muses, the grassland sinking into a valley around them. It has been over a month and the rocking of his blade against these necessarily strong shoulders, this flexing back, has existed as a constant melody.   </p>
<p>Low in the valley as they are, Ghirahim can no longer see the incessant visage of his Master, and is instead left to the soft-but-sure sound of boots padding through tall grass.    </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Hours later finds them in an area known as the ‘Fenir Woods,’ according to that glass map. These woods are much the same as others they have seen, though the trunks of the trees are severely thickened. The veins of five-pointed leaves splinter like confused spiderwebs along the tops of each one. Ghirahim regards it all soundlessly from his blade.   </p>
<p>Another jarring shiver rakes through the shoulders beneath his steel. The air had gotten only marginally cooler in these woods, yet this is the fifth shudder in an hour. The muscles against his blade tense and shake like the strange leaves above.    </p>
<p>Those bandages shift as they had in the temple, and Ghirahim sees the cuts as they are: scorching red on their outer rims, a nauseous greenish-yellow blotted through, and black rimes striking down their centers. The smell is growing pestilent.   </p>
<p>Demise had not been susceptible to mortal sepsis, the Skyloft hero always had his infernal fairies to take care of him, and so Ghirahim has no experience with such things. Yet even he can garner this sort of festering wound does not bode well.   </p>
<p>The gorey cut from the lynel, down along his torso, remains fresh and thus uninfected; though without proper care the demon assumes it too will begin to rot.   </p>
<p><em>Has your goddess truly given you no means of expedited healing? </em>He inquires, the first words between them in hours.   </p>
<p>“I guess,” is the reply he’s gifted, that voice warmly hoarse. “I just haven’t had time to do it. And I’m missing some ingredients.”   </p>
<p><em>Ingredients</em>, Ghirahim repeats as if the word were a pest.  </p>
<p>Link nods. “Yeah. That’s why I took that horn… and all those other ones you left me.” Another shiver runs the length of his back, this one forceful enough to shake his nude arms as well.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim’s spirit convulses minutely within his sword. It is not cold enough to trouble his steel any but the mortal flesh before him is intensely affected. He recalls the feather-like hemline of that ridiculous armor from that frivolous avian hub.   </p>
<p>
  <em>You have a distressing fondness for nudity.</em>
</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p><em>Where are your </em> clothes<em>, boy.</em></p>
<p>“Oh.”  </p>
<p>The following silence is drawn out to a longer rhythm than what Ghirahim had grown accustomed to. The Hylian is wrestling with something in his mind.</p>
<p>“I left it in a stable, when you were…” Link makes some gesture with his hands to complete the sentence.   </p>
<p>
  <em>Use your foolish mouth. It seems to be functional enough today.   </em>
</p>
<p>“Cracked,” Link says with a roll of his eyes, the word performing its own definition with autological irony Ghirahim finds aggravating. “I ran from a few sheikah warriors and left it behind.”   </p>
<p>
  <em>Pathetic on both counts.   </em>
</p>
<p>Thick eyebrows bear down, his bottom lip stuck out drastically. “I was trying to—”  </p>
<p><em>Yes, yes, we have been through it.</em> Ghirahim does not desire to hear his reasoning again. <em>Can you not retrieve the garment? Your little trinket from the goddess allows you instantaneous travel, does it not?</em>    </p>
<p>The hero shivers again, looking upwards to a sedentary, clouded sky. “Yeah,” he says with all the awareness of a stone — distracted by no more than <em>clouds</em>, by no more than air. “I can use the shrines.”   </p>
<p>
  <em>Well? I refuse to rest here against your incessant shivering. Find one and retrieve your clothes. </em>
</p>
<p>He shivers yet again, the vibration against Ghirahim’s sword making him curl with  anger. All that mortal skin shifting against his lovely steel — a gross catalyst for discomfort.   </p>
<p>Link rubs at the back of his neck and says, “I’ll have to leave you behind.”  </p>
<p>
  <em>If I could be so blessed with a few moments to myself.</em>
</p>
<p>That lower lip protrudes again, those heavy eyebrows sinking.    </p>
<p>Ghirahim rings inside his head. Not harshly, but expressive nonetheless.    </p>
<p>Blue eyes roll.  </p>
<p>“I just… I don’t like it.”  </p>
<p><em> Well </em> I <em> do not particularly enjoy your vibrating spinal cord nor these festering wounds pressed against my steel! You begin to reek of rot, boy. It is difficult enough to suffer your body; it is unfair to expect me to suffer your sullied flesh as well while you quiver like a leaf. </em></p>
<p>“I thought you…” The bashful tone is implicative yet the hero trails off, words dying on his lips.  </p>
<p>
  <em>What?   </em>
</p>
<p>“Nothing.” </p>
<p><em>Out with it! </em>  </p>
<p>Link’s honeyed face contorts to a deadbolt frown, twisting his mouth, brows, cheeks, and even the tendons of his throat.  </p>
<p>“It’s… weird,” he says, the tone now that depricative sort Ghirahim has heard far too often. Hiding from that guardian; inside the blue Rito’s home; last evening tucked within crumbling ruins; fleetingly as they walked from one destination to another...    </p>
<p>
  <em>That certainly has never hindered you before.   </em>
</p>
<p>Link glares down the path ahead of them, his heavy boots still stomping their rhythm.  </p>
<p>
  <em> the demon says. It is clear the Hylian does not wish to explain himself, and it is of no concern to Ghirahim. <em>Locate one of your blessed shrines and cover your necrotic body. The stench alone threatens to turn my very steel sour.</em></em>
</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Link sees the tell-tale orange glow of the shrine through the trees of the Finra Woods. The clouded-over sky had grown darker, and he can smell ozone in the air.   </p>
<p>The Pumaag Nitae Shrine sits sunken into lichen and vines and leaves, hidden among white-barked trees and red wildflowers. His footsteps seem too loud as he walks, as does the faint sound of the sword on his back, rocking gently with each step. A cool breeze passes over them, carrying dampness and that approaching rainwater smell. Link shivers again.   </p>
<p>It isn’t that cold. He knows it’s the wounds making him shake more than the weather. He’d stitched the lizalfo claw marks on his back the best he could, but without the right kind of elixir he can’t do much for the infection. The shredded line from the lynel sends white hot pain to the front of his head every time he moves; it’s the deepest wound he’s ever had, at least that he can remember.   </p>
<p>A black saber flashes in his mind.  </p>
<p>They’re not the same sort of cut. The Ghirahim from that vision had carved him through slowly, the wound thin and precise. The lynel had sliced him chaotically and thickly.   </p>
<p>Link breathes out slow, looking through the white-green forest towards the shrine.  </p>
<p>
  <em>I do not refer to your Ganon as ‘Master’ because I am fond of doing so. I do not have a choice. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He… owns you? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes. </em>
</p>
<p>When they’d been in Hyrule Field for the first time, weeks ago now, Ghirahim had been agitated. They’d been just south of the castle. At the time he'd figured that’s who the demon was – snappish, impatient, demanding. But even then Link had wondered if maybe Ghirahim was<em> afraid</em> of something.   </p>
<p>He’d been in a trance in Kass’s house, sitting on Link’s chest with his saber to his throat. Link remembers hearing Medoh crying while he looked up at a grey face and ghostly eyes.   </p>
<p>The night before that, when they’d stayed at Rito Stable, Ghirahim had seemed a little off, too.  </p>
<p>And Link remembers the demon’s nearly peaceful expression in Kaysa’s alcove, her magic washing over them like pollen. None of the calamity in sight.    </p>
<p>Ghirahim <em>belongs</em> to Ganon. Some old spell binds them together. It seems so obvious, now, that something had been going on.   </p>
<p>Guilt washes over him. How hadn’t he noticed sooner?  </p>
<p>
  <em>What has you looking so upset now?   </em>
</p>
<p>Link shakes his head, still marching his way towards the shrine. <em> At least he told me</em>, he thinks, nodding to himself. <em>At least I know now.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>On with it, then. </em>
</p>
<p>A chime of diamonds, their magenta and black shapes turning Link’s head to the left, flutters through the air. Ghirahim appears beside him in the white-green forest, his brow low and his face twisted into typical disdain.   </p>
<p>“Retrieve your <em>clothes</em>, hero.” He offers two gloved hands, unfolding them gracefully with a grave glare.    </p>
<p>Link reaches back and grabs a black hilt. The latch clicks. It’s not a loud sound, not really, but it seems to ring hollowly through his chest.   </p>
<p>“Is it okay if I…” he starts, holding the hilt with one hand while his other hovers near black steel.  </p>
<p>“If you what?” </p>
<p>“Touch… the blade,” Link says, looking up at Ghirahim and then pointedly <em>not</em> looking at him.    </p>
<p>“What are you asking for? You touch—” The demon’s words stop abruptly. Still Link doesn’t look at him, his shame overwhelming. When Ghirahim speaks again it’s with a growl in his tone. “You <em>wield</em> me, boy. This is an inane question.”     </p>
<p>“You were… upset about it,” Link says, his eyes falling shut, listening to the sound of chirping birds and wind through leaves. “Before.”   </p>
<p>It’s a minute before the demon seems to know what he’s referring to. When it clicks, a soft intake of air meets his ears and Link opens his eyes again, watching the dramatic lines of a grey face shift as he talks.    </p>
<p>“It is about context. As is the case in many physical interactions.”    </p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>“Honestly,” Ghirahim says, his frown deepening in its confusion. “How would you react if I attempted to wash—” He stops, that frown twisting into impatient frustration, and then he breathes longly through his nose while his fingers bend and twitch, still held out in waiting. “Nevermind. Not a line of thought we need explore,” he says. Link watches the white curtain of hair covering half his face and wishes it wasn’t there, just for a moment. “Hand me my blade and be off.”      </p>
<p>Link lifts the black sword by its hilt and blade, holding it horizontally. He sets neatly in white hands.   </p>
<p>He means to release the hilt after that — his left hand drops away from the blade, afterall, and it’s only natural to think his right will follow. But it doesn’t.   </p>
<p>Link keeps a tight grip on the sword. He stares at his bare fingers wrapped around a black hilt. He stares at the difference in size. He stares at the gem, the white gloved hands under the sword, and he thinks about shattering black glass.   </p>
<p>“<em>Release</em> me,” Ghirahim says.  </p>
<p>Link doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is telling him not to. He tightens his grip on the hilt, fingers curling around it like vines, feeling that low pulse of energy he knows can burn bitter enough to make his knees weak.</p>
<p>“I am not going to run off. We have been thro—”  </p>
<p>“Ghirahim,” Link’s voice works without intent. He’s surprised at the sound of it, though his focused expression never falters. He stares down at the sword. At his hand around it. “Wait right here for me,” he says. Looking up again into dark eyes, Link expects them to be narrowed, sneering, maybe angry. They’re none of those things. They’re surprised and slightly wide.    </p>
<p>Ghirahim’s smirk washes it away. “Look at you, barking orders.”    </p>
<p>“It’s not an order.”  </p>
<p>“Are you certain?”  </p>
<p>Link frowns. “Yes. There are people after us. Those sheikah weapons knocked you out. They could take you, and I’d never be able to find you.”   </p>
<p>“I am worlds stronger than any pathetic <em>sheikah</em>,” he sneers.  </p>
<p>“I know that.”</p>
<p>“So what are you prattling on about?”  </p>
<p>“I’m worried about you,” Link says, fingers prodding against a black hilt.  </p>
<p>“Your concern is unwarranted. Have I not proven myself time and time again?”  </p>
<p>Link can only stare.  </p>
<p>After a minute he lets go of a black hilt. Ghirahim takes his sword in both hands.  </p>
<p>Link pulls out the slate. He selects the warm, plum-coloured cloak he’d bought in Rito Village. The sword at his back hadn't been cold while he’d been walking, but this isn’t really about that.   </p>
<p>“Here,” Link says as he sets the cloak down over the blade still horizontal in Ghiraim’s hands. “It might rain.”   </p>
<p>Dark eyes narrow at him suspiciously. “You continue to make less and less sense.”    </p>
<p>Link shrugs.  </p>
<p>He turns around and steps onto the shrine’s platform, not waiting to hear Ghirahim’s response to that. His hands already itch. He’ll just be a few minutes. Serenne Stable is a quick jog from The Maag No'rah Shrine. He doesn’t need to worry this much; Ghirahim can fight on his own, Link had watched him do it yesterday. He’d killed that lynel and held off the sheikah while Link had prayed and lost himself to a dream — who <em>knows</em> for how long. He’s more than capable. They’re far away from Ganon, too, and any of his blights.   </p>
<p>Activating the shrine with a whir of blue magic, Link doesn’t say anything else, and he’s not given any sort of goodbye.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>With a gruesome scowl, born of bubbling perplexity and scornful offense, Ghirahim watches the Hylian's back as it fades into blue streams of light. He is then alone — standing before Hylia's abominable shrine, holding his blade dumbly and ignoring the soft fabric resting on his lower arms. A tempered wind blows through and then Ghirahim is unable to ignore it. The air skirts his hair into his eyes and he is forced to move.    </p>
<p>The demon sends his sword to his own back with a wave of diamonds, leaving it to float there. The cloak drops forgotten to the grass.   </p>
<p>The hero had been acting more peculiar than usual, which is a feat in and of itself considering his general level of oddity. Ghirahim would never succumb to some weak <em>sheikah</em>, denizens of Hylia’s rule as they are. Does Link truly believe him so inadequate? After the innumerable battles they had wrought together?   </p>
<p>He should not let it affect him, regardless.  </p>
<p>Ghirahim peers down at the cloak near his feet.  </p>
<p>
  <em>It might rain. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wait right here for me. </em>
</p>
<p>He snaps his fingers, leaving the cloak to the grass, and places himself high up on a wide tree branch. He may as well rest. Link had neglected to tell him how long this little excursion may take, and the demon lord will not stand by that cursed shrine like a dog.    </p>
<p>Lying his blade along his front, Ghirahim holds the hilt near his chest and gazes down the length of steel. The altered size is jarring. Appalling. How had it happened? For what purpose? His sword had always remained that onerous, large black mass, meant for colossal hands and thunderous muscles. That Link had even been able to wield it as such was a testament to his strength.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim slides his hands across his hilt, staring at red flowers. He is perturbed by the amount of unknowns currently laid out before him. The malformed fact of his blade, his disjointed memories after their battle inside that beast, the wounds festering peach skin.   </p>
<p>“No need for rumination,” he says to himself, returning his gaze to his sword. He does not hate it. The size, the partitions that are more diamond-like, the slight gleam. The lack of control leaves an ugly taste in his mouth, but he does not hate this result. If he were to knowingly alter his blade he does not expect it would be any different than what is lying on top of him now.   </p>
<p>Still... It is unnerving to think of himself as unconscious, or disappeared. Only to be brought back through some magic of his Master's making.   </p>
<p>A sudden cry draws the demon's attention. Feminine, afraid. It is followed by the clash of metal. Someone is fighting in the woods. Ghirahim listens with a somber face, staring at his gloved hands over dark steel as if uninterested.    </p>
<p>That scream again, further fearful, turning savage as death approaches. What concern is it to him? The lives of mortals are all fleeting. Whether she dies now via monsters or later via her own aging body, it changes nothing. She will still be dead.   </p>
<p>Oh but that is <em>Demise</em> speaking through him, he thinks with a hissing scowl. Ghirahim's white hands stiffen in midair, in mid-admiration, in mid-realization.   </p>
<p>He sees the Hylian female stepping backwards, a spear clutched in her quivering hands. She is holding her own and perhaps may win, perhaps may not; the demon does not take the time to parse her skills. It is a bokoblin harassing her, the beast’s spear ghosting her cheek as she pitches herself grassward, dodging the hit.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim smirks to himself from the tree branch. Perhaps a bit of fun can be found during his waiting.   </p>
<p>He calls forth six black knives in a neat vertical line and sends the daggers soaring with a flick of his wrist.  </p>
<p>The bokoblin dies pathetically. The Hylian female is confused before smartly accepting the random luck she'd been given and disappearing into the forest. He hears her returning to a man. Doubtless her mortal partner. Tye, she calls him, her panicked voice lilting against the thick trees of this forest.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim dismisses the knives and then returns to his idle waiting on the branch.  </p>
<p>An hour goes by, the forest around him — named Finra, he believes — offers him no further entertainment. He is but waiting, a wholly unfitting activity for a sword such as himself. How far is that stable? The insolent hero had neglected to share with him any sort of timeframe. When should he expect his little <em>charge</em> returned to him? he wonders, irritation already building behind his eyes.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim feels suddenly as if his skin is crawling with maggots; idle here in the tree, alone, it would be easiest to depart. The hero may have become further adept at combat yet his hands are much too small, are they not? Too frail to wield him. How had he come to this place? How had he come to be beside Hylia’s little <em>pawn</em> who he is meant to snuff out? Does Link even know what he is? <em>You have no idea what I've been through!</em> If Ghirahim were to snap his fingers he could be outside of that castle in seconds he could bathe himself in that malignant malice creeping like an illness across the field; oh it would flood him with hellish ecstasy. What need has he for anything else? For puny peach hands, altered calluses, the gentle hum of constant courage, the melody of footsteps on grass. Persistence. Insistence. Sightful.    </p>
<p>The careful way he is held.    </p>
<p><em>This is Demise</em>, Ghirahim realizes through the dark miasma falling over him. This second-guessing. This baseless requirement to return.   </p>
<p>Scratching a claw up the full length of his altered sword, the demon determines to fight the crawling call of ancient magic with every ounce of his own.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
“A coat?” The stable keeper — Link doesn’t know her name — asks. It took a lot of contorting and gesturing, but he’d managed to explain what he’s after without speaking. His words won’t come and he doesn’t have the patience to try and force it. The shopkeeper hums, a finger tapping her cheek absently. “Yeah, the boss mentioned some traveler lost a coat. But how do I know it’s yours?”   </p>
<p>Practically bouncing on his toes Link swivels around to show her his back. Without a black slash of steel there the bandages are obvious, soaked through with blood and green infection.   </p>
<p>“Ah. Yeah, that’ll do it,” she says. “You need to get that checked out.”  </p>
<p>His snowquill coat is pulled from underneath the circle counter and handed to him with a concerned sort of smile.  </p>
<p>Link takes it a bit too quickly, feeling a slight tug as he pulls it from her hands too soon. He tries to look sorry about it but he’s not sure his face is cooperating. He tries to say thank you, at least, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a weird grunt.   </p>
<p>“You’re in some kinda hurry,” she says, her voice already fading as Link turns tail and runs back towards the shrine.  </p>
<p>He veers left up Lindor Hill, nearly tripping onto the shrine’s platform. He activates the pedestal and jabs his finger into the marker on the map, panting from exertion. The seconds seem to drag until blue light engulfs him, magic calling him back to where he’d come from.   </p>
<p>His boots hit the stone platform of the Pumaag Nitae Shrine, the airy feeling of sheikah magic dissipating until he’s corporeal again. Normally he gives himself a second to reorientate but his hands are itching, his head too quiet, some nagging feeling bringing him back here as fast as he could go.   </p>
<p>Link looks left, and then right, and he sees nothing but trees and red flowers.  </p>
<p>“Ghirahim?”</p>
<p>The only reply is the chirp of birds and the summertime buzz of flies. Ferny, white-veined leaves sway in a slow breeze. Wood twists and contorts through the Finra Woods, pale trunks growing at odd angles, red wildflowers woven through the leaves like a tapestry. He listens hard — he looks harder — but there’s no sign of him.   </p>
<p>Link takes a step forward.</p>
<p>He wouldn't leave. Right? After yesterday, after all of that, he wouldn’t.  </p>
<p>The sheikah must have shown up. Where would they take him? To Impa, or straight to the mountain?   </p>
<p>“Cease all that excessive head wagging.”    </p>
<p>Link swings his head around like a whip. Ghirahim is lounging across a high tree branch on the other side of the shrine, lying on his back with his head against the upper trunk of the tree. His sword is splayed out across his thighs and chest. The hilt rests over where his heart would be. His hands are holding the sword; cradling it, more or less, though he would never tell the demon that.   </p>
<p>A sigh of relief floats out through Link’s nose.  </p>
<p>“Were you not successful in your little campaign?” Ghirahim asks. Even through dark clouds, daylight brings out the hazel in his eyes. “You remain unclothed, hero.”   </p>
<p>Expressionless, Link holds his hands out.  </p>
<p>“A silent request, hm?”  </p>
<p>He nods. His brow is slick with sweat from running.  </p>
<p>Ghirahim trails a hand down the steel of his sword, slow and methodical, lingering in a few places. Link’s gaze focuses on that for a breathless beat.    </p>
<p>The way the dark blade rests over Ghirahim’s chest and thighs, the affectionate caress of the demon’s fingers... He looks…    </p>
<p>‘Restful’ wouldn’t be the right word. That tongue keeps poking out, just its tip, and his expression curls with a kind of pleasure Link can’t place. Pleased with himself, obviously, but pleased in some other way too.    </p>
<p>He reminds Link a bit of some giant silvery serpent, coiled in sunlight and content in the safety of a tall tree. Ghirahim probably wouldn’t like the comparison. But Link’s never minded snakes.    </p>
<p>Eventually, still waiting with his hands held out, Link is gifted a sigh that’s more wistful than exasperated, and then his vision is full of diamonds, shimmering in cloudy daylight. The sword materializes in his hands. A wave of relief hits him harder than he thought it would.   </p>
<p>
  <em>You were gone a long time. Did you regain the garment or not?   </em>
</p>
<p>He nods.</p>
<p>
  <em>Yet you neglect to wear it.   </em>
</p>
<p>A familiar low pulse of energy radiates against his palms. It’s not the bright burn that sends black fire through his veins, threatening to devour his heart; he hasn’t felt that since Vah Medoh. Instead it’s just the passive power the sword always radiates.   </p>
<p>He closes his eyes. Maybe to feel it better, but he doesn’t need to say that.  </p>
<p>
  <em>Dress yourself, hero. That was the singular goal of your departure.   </em>
</p>
<p>Link sets the sword against a tree, a few feet away from the shrine. He pulls his coat out and slips it on, setting the hard chest-to-torso piece over it. The fabric at the back is holed in three slices, cool air still able to seep in, but the sword would cover most of it, and Link can sew it up whenever they stop for the night.   </p>
<p>Once he’s dressed and has the sword belts resecured, he picks the blade back up.  </p>
<p>
  <em>At last, an end to all that shivering. Perhaps next you may turn your attention to these wounds threatening to decay you? </em>
</p>
<p>Link means to slip Ghirahim onto his back, but stops short.  </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse from lack of use, although it’d only been an hour. “For waiting.”  </p>
<p>The sword in his hands goes hot. The sudden flare of angry heat is enough to burn him. With a shout Link fumbles the hilt, and the sword hits the mossy forest floor with a <em>thwump.</em></p>
<p>Gripping his stinging hands into his chest, Link glares down at the blade in a way he hopes says <em>What was that for? </em></p>
<p>There’s no reply.</p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
The edge of the Finra Woods brings throngs of enemies that seem to be endless. Link cuts through them as they make their way, the demon of his blade practically keening and definitely cackling with each guttural strike.    </p>
<p>Night begins to creep over Hyrule, but they can’t stop to rest, not until the woods around them is clear of monsters. Link’s made that mistake before. It’s not one he’s willing to repeat.   </p>
<p>The clang of steel against lizalfo claws shakes Link’s arms, rattling his teeth, but he grits them and realigns his strike. He steps in with his left foot and cuts a quick line. The lizalfo screeches wetly and dies. The calamity leaks from its corpse, purple smoke rising to the treetops under a darkening dusky sky.   </p>
<p>In his head a demon cackles, chimes guiding his hands as needed. Link turns on the balls of his feet. There’s one monster left, just a bokoblin. He waits and lets it get close. Ghirahim chimes at him, one that means strike low, but Link ignores it.   </p>
<p>
  <em>What are you doing? </em>
</p>
<p>For once the question isn’t irritated — is only curious.  </p>
<p>He shifts his grip on the hilt to one-handed, holding the sword like a pole to be stabbed into the ground. When the bokoblin is close enough, its mindless face snarling, Link strikes. He pulls the sword into a backhanded slash, cutting the monster from its lower abdomen to its chin. It dies in a furious scream.</p>
<p><em>Creative, I suppose,</em> the demon says as violet vapours dance through the sky, <em>Though unnecessarily fancy.</em></p>
<p>Link raises both of his eyebrows down at black steel. “<em>You’re</em> going to lecture <em>me</em> about being ‘unnecessarily fancy’?” he says.    </p>
<p>Ghirahim chuckles. It’s deep and it’s quiet, but it’s a real laugh. Link goes still. He doesn’t say anything. His heartbeat says something for him.     </p>
<p>Monsters dead, arms and legs shaking with exhaustion, Link continues on. They can’t stop here, out in the open. He needs to find them some sort of cover. Stalbokoblins will be out soon.   </p>
<p>He arrives at tiny clearing, enclosed and draped with fern-like leaves, the jungle turning tropical as they near the border of the Pagos Woods. They should be safe from Hyrule’s nighttime monsters here in this nook.   </p>
<p>But when he lights a fire and sits down to cook what food he’d found, a stalbokoblin bursts from the earth. The sudden blow of bone through dirt knocks his cooking pot off his lap as Link jumps, scattering half-cut vegetables across the forest floor.   </p>
<p>Link starts to rise to his feet, thigh muscles spasming from a full day of hiking and fighting — but he’s done this before. He can force his body to do what’s needed.   </p>
<p>The sword on his back goes cold just as he reaches back for the hilt. Before Link knows it, Ghirahim is standing corporeal under the ferny greenery of the jungle at night.   </p>
<p>Smirking, tongue slipping out, the demon makes his way towards the skeletal monsters. He doesn't say anything. He snaps his fingers and sends a line of knives soaring, each one stabbing straight through bone, each resulting <em>thunk</em> widening that sharp, creeping grin.    </p>
<p>Link stares, and a single mushroom falls from his grip.    </p>
<p>Once the stalbokoblins are all dead, bones heaped on the grass and wiggling, the demon returns to the sword.  </p>
<p>“Thanks,” Link says, poking at his food over the fire.  </p>
<p>Again, the sword as his back stings with sudden warmth.    <br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>
A day later has them staring up at Hateno Tower under a balmy afternoon sun. The slate displays the unmarked region while Link grips it in his hands, studying the screen quietly. A dark hilt is stuck up over his back, as if peering over his shoulder to look too. The map of the surrounding area isn’t complete. All he needs to do is climb this tower, and they’ll have a better idea of where they’re going.   </p>
<p>Last night, nestled between the trees of the Pagos Woods, Ghirahim had told him he could just see the top of the tower off in the distance. <em>Perhaps a day’s hike, at your pace</em>.   </p>
<p>Link had been surprised to be given the information, but had smiled with a nod.  </p>
<p><em>This architecture is hideous,</em>Ghirahim says now, the shadow of the tower looming over them.   </p>
<p>It’s made of a meshwork of metal and platforms, just like the others he’d climbed. But instead of the way up being clear, there are snarling brown thorns weaving through different sections of it. The base of the tower is completely surrounded.   </p>
<p>Fire arrows are his first thought, but Link doesn’t have any, hasn’t for weeks. </p>
<p>Wordless, he grabs onto one thorn, moving to make his way over the sea of them.   </p>
<p><em>Boy,</em> the demon rings in his ears, the tone weary, <em>What are you doing?</em>   </p>
<p>“Climbing.”  </p>
<p>A thorn slices into his calf, making him hiss.    </p>
<p><em>Do you take some masochistic pleasure in marring your own skin? </em> </p>
<p>“What?” He grunts as another thorn breaks under the weight of his foot, slicing his shin. Link grips tight so he doesn’t fall.  </p>
<p><em>Stop</em>. <em>You are far worse than mindless at times.</em></p>
<p>Link grits his teeth as he pulls himself upward. “Do you have a better idea?”  </p>
<p>The sword goes cold, and cascade of black diamonds appears beside him.  </p>
<p>Ghirahim emerges in broad daylight, standing impossibly on the tips of thorns next to where Link clings to them. When he looks closer, though, he sees that his white feet float a breath above the thorns. He isn't really standing at all.</p>
<p>The demon looks up at the tower, studying it quietly for a long moment. </p>
<p>Link stares up at his hair and the blue diamond earring. Can count the number of times he's seen them in the daytime on one hand.</p>
<p>White fingers begin to dance, Ghirahim’s brow knitting in concentration as he attempts to cast some unknown spell. </p>
<p>There’s a snap of energy through the air that blows Link’s hair back. And then slowly, one by one, gold diamonds pop into existence along the tower. They create a set of stairs, each diamond-shaped step springing to life with a chime, starting from the top of the tower and stopping just in front of Link with one final bright ping.    </p>
<p>Link looks up at the diamond stairs in front of him glittering brightly in shades of gold. He blinks, taking a moment to process what he’d seen.</p>
<p>“That’s amazing,” he says under his breath. From his peripheral he watches shoulders stiffen. The magenta cloak shifts.   </p>
<p>Keeping his line of sight straight on the tower, Link lets go of the thorns and climbs the first flat diamond step instead. The surface stings everywhere he touches, just like the platform had when he’d nearly fallen off the plateau. But this slight sting is better than thorns by a long shot.   </p>
<p>He climbs the steps to the top of Hateno Tower, the sword at his back warm against his skin as Ghirahim returns to it. Link swipes the side of one hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away a smile.   </p>
<p>Once at the top, he sets the slate on the monument. To his relief it works as it always had.  </p>
<p>Map complete, Link slides the slate back onto his hip and then makes for the edge of the tower, meaning to leap off into a glide.  </p>
<p><em>What is this? </em>  </p>
<p>A chime turns Link’s gaze westward.  </p>
<p>“A shrine, I think,” he answers, the distant orange glow tucked into a cliffside.  </p>
<p>
  <em>And this. </em>
</p>
<p>A chime to the northwest this time. Squinting, Link can just barely make out two wings. “That’s Medoh,” he says. A red beam of light surges from it to the castle, though from here he can’t see the castle at all.   </p>
<p>Link’s chest feels tight, thinking about Revali still trapped there.  </p>
<p>Another chime cuts his thoughts off. This one is east and not as far away as the others, but much smaller and harder to see. He has to look through the slate to make it out.   </p>
<p>It’s a funny looking building. It has three uneven floors, white siding, and a reddish roof. Smoke billows out from a chimney at the top.   </p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Link says, slipping the slate back onto his hip. “Haven’t been there.” The demon is silent. Ghirahim is barely ever silent. Tugging at the belts over his chest, Link says, “We can go. If you want.”   </p>
<p>
  <em>What? </em>
</p>
<p>“We have to head east anyway.” He thumbs at the belts across his chest. “Let’s check it out.”  </p>
<p>Exploring is part of regaining his memories. But curiosity, especially shared, is what put the offer in his mouth.   </p>
<p>Link jumps off the tower, glider in his hands and wind carrying sword and hero to the ground. His boots hit the earth with a muted thud. The grassland around Hateno Tower is surrounded by craggy cliffs, casting the rolling valley in shadows. The rock is all grey-slate, encasing them on every side, and the grass is short and weedy. </p>
<p>The rain from a few days ago had never come, but it seems like it might today. Dark clouds are blooming near the horizon.</p>
<p>
  <em>We’re going now? </em>
</p>
<p>Link nods, scanning the area. They’re far enough south that they shouldn’t have to worry about running into anyone from Kakariko Village; though by now Impa’s sheikah warriors could be anywhere, he reminds himself. </p>
<p>What did those blue flames of magic do to Ghirahim? he wonders as he starts walking away from the tower. It hurt him in some deep way. Just like the shrines, just like being near the Goddess’s statues, it hurt Ghirahim right down to his core.   </p>
<p>And Link can’t help but worry — who wouldn't worry? — but voicing his concerns always seems to make the demon upset. When he’d given him the plum-coloured cloak and left him in the Finra Woods, Ghirahim had been angry. He was confused about why he’d been given it — about why Link thought he might need it. <em>Has no one ever worried about you before?</em> That’s what Link had wondered, holding the hilt of a dark sword and staring up at a frustrated frown.    </p>
<p>Ghirahim is distrusting, cautious, and constantly guarded. He acts just like an abused animal. Mean and loud.   </p>
<p>Someone had hurt him.  </p>
<p>Link doesn’t need to think very hard to figure out who.  </p>
<p>What was it like, he wonders sadly, <em>belonging</em> to someone like Calamity Ganon?   </p>
<p><em>I can practically </em>feel<em> you working that dull mind, hero. </em></p>
<p>Link shakes his head. “I was just thinking,” he says, going back to a thought he’d had on their way here, “The towers are usually surrounded by monsters, but there aren’t any.”   </p>
<p>
  <em>Do they not migrate?   </em>
</p>
<p>“Maybe... Ghirahim,” he says, mind switching gears again, “I want to tell you something.”   </p>
<p>
  <em>I suspect it would be futile to attempt to stop you.     </em>
</p>
<p>Link smiles wryly in response, hands on his hips.  </p>
<p>
  <em>Well, out with it.   </em>
</p>
<p>“It’s more than just memories that I lost,” he starts, doing his best to sound at ease about it. “I woke up in that shrine and I didn’t—”   </p>
<p>“Excuse me!” A voice behind them calls clear through the darkening sky. Link jolts. He hadn’t heard anyone coming up behind them. “Excuse me?” The voice says again.   </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Ghirahim stills within the confines of his blade. There had been no one in their vicinity moments ago. There could not have been. Inside his sword as he is, <em>being</em> the sword that he is, he would have seen or otherwise sensed them. </p>
<p>The hero turns around. He faces a Hylian woman with his usual blank stare. She is innocuously dressed in browns and leathers, with dark hair and light eyes. Unremarkable, save for her inexplicable presence.   </p>
<p><em>Link</em>. He watches ears twitch and eyes slide to their corners, looking back at his hilt. <em>There is something—</em></p>
<p>“It’s so nice to see a fellow traveler way out here,” the Hylian woman says, her fingers working themselves along the hem of her brown shirt. “My name’s Reena.”   </p>
<p>Link nods.</p>
<p>Ghirahim does not sense anything otherworldly about her. She is a simple mortal. </p>
<p>Yet she had crept up on him.   </p>
<p>“You don’t have a moment, do you?”  </p>
<p>A blond head tilts in confusion, the gesture a soundless <em>What?</em> and the squint in blue eyes adding punctuation. </p>
<p>Inevitably, however, Link nods.   </p>
<p>Within his sword the demon tenses. This dim, helpless hero — whether by intentional design or simple fact — is <em>ever</em> willing to relinquish himself to the aid of others, deserving or not. He had done so more than a dozen times on their journey thus far; assisting people who scorned him for his tactics, his slowness, and his silence. Assisting them though they were thankless.   </p>
<p>Pathetic.   </p>
<p>“Great!” The woman cheers, replying to that steadfast nod. “I’ve got something amazing to show you.”  </p>
<p>A hand reaches out, faster than Ghirahim would have thought possible, and latches onto the black belts across Link’s chest. Sky blue eyes blow wide. Link attempts to move back but that hand is a latch holding him sternly in place and the knife that follows is ruthless, precise. It slips up and slices through the tough leather of the belts with a snap.    </p>
<p>Link makes a stunned noise, a rough but quiet shout.  </p>
<p>Ghirahim’s sword hits the grass with a blunt thud. The sound seems final, his steel rattled, rocks underneath the grass clinking against metal.   </p>
<p>The slate follows, those belts cut too. It lands beside the sword with a muted clank. </p>
<p>Ghirahim releases himself from his blade with a furious thrash of diamonds, agitation warping the magic. He had thought this woman innocuous and had focused on Link’s consummative kindness rather than this stranger’s <em>strangeness—</em></p>
<p>The woman still has a vice-grip on Link’s upper arm. She is holding something small in her hand. Ghirahim watches, a moment too late, as a cloud of grey smoke vanishes the hero away.  </p>
<p>Stunned is not an expression the demon affects often. He blinks, only once, with fettered disbelief.    </p>
<p>The empty path before him gouges at his vision. The clouded over sky, insistently reminiscent, yawns overhead. His altered black blade lies among grass and weeds that seem to grip like chains at his steel. The slate lies motionless beside this, a blue light blinking. Nothing else.   </p>
<p>That woman had taken him. She had snatched Link up and stole him away via some petty <em>trick</em>. It had not been real magic. Ghirahim would have felt such energies if they had been present.   </p>
<p>Wind sweeps hollowly across the rocks that create the valley he is alone in. An empty chill courses through his body, forcing his brow into weightedness. There is no way to track the Hylian. The call of his Master is a constant whisper along his steel yet for Link there is no such connection. There is only the sound of boots through grass. Of river water. The crackling of a shared fire.    </p>
<p>The boy is not incapable. He would free himself, undoubtedly, in time, surely. Yet to permit himself captured in the first place! Ghirahim swells with sudden anger, his lips curling back to bare his teeth to nothing but empty space. Incompetent gnat! Incomprehensive whelp! Useless, meaningless, moronic boy! The wit of a mayfly, the self-preservation of a fire! The—</p>
<p>Radiating energy begins to bloom through the air around him. Ghirahim curls his gloved hands at his sides, unable to recall the last time he had been furious enough to lose control of his power. Snapping his gaze down to the sliced belts on the grass — avoided until now — he sucks in unneeded air through his nose.   </p>
<p>He snaps his fingers harder than necessary, bringing the belts into an iron grip.  </p>
<p>They are still warm.</p>
<p>His hand becomes a claw as he grasps thick black leather. Where does he begin? The Skyloft hero had been pathetically easy to track from the start. That sword of his had rang and vibrated and explained everything to him, his own ineptitude leaving obvious signs of his presence. Furthermore Ghirahim had reigned over <em>that</em> surface for a thousand years and had known all of its secrets.    </p>
<p>Here, in this wide unknown world, in this new uncomfortable present, he stands useless at its very center.  </p>
<p>—pathetic, inexcusable, <em>useless—</em></p>
<p>How had the foolish boy allowed himself to be taken?  </p>
<p>How had Ghirahim allowed it to happen?  </p>
<p>The grip of a black hand cracks the leather within its clutch.  </p>
<p>Rancorous and shrill, an animal-cry scrapes through the dreary air.  </p>
<p>Horses.  </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Crushed between a wooden crate and the wooden side of the cart he’s in, Link tries to wiggle out of the bonds tying him up. His ankles and hands are both secured with coarse rope. The Yiga member who had taken him, after explaining who and what they were, tossed him in here like a sack of flour.   </p>
<p>They’re apparently taking him to somewhere called the ‘Gerudo Desert’ to meet their leader. It hadn’t sounded familiar at all, the name or the clan itself.   </p>
<p>He needs to get out of these ropes first, then he can break through the wooden side of this cart. From the rickety sound it makes as the horses pull it along Link is pretty sure he can just throw himself against the wooden siding until it breaks.   </p>
<p>The task of wriggling out of his bonds begins to make him sweat, especially in such a cramped space and still in his coat from Rito Village.  </p>
<p>It’s no use. No matter how he tugs, contorts and pulls, his wrists stay tightly bound.  </p>
<p>He’s going to have to dislocate his fingers. At least on one hand. Then he’ll be able to slip through the ropes.   </p>
<p>He’ll have to be quiet about it, too.  </p>
<p>Link takes a deep breath.  </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Ghirahim finds the horse and the cart not half a kilometer away, trotting on a dirt road and heading westward.  </p>
<p>The demon will slaughter them for their cowardice. Clearly they had no honour in battle, playing <em>tricks</em> with smoke and mirrors. Death was the only deserved reward for such deceit.   </p>
<p>Defiled belts remain securely in one gloved hand. Ghirahim snaps the fingers of his unoccupied one, sending himself inside the wooden cart in a furious flood of diamonds.   </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Tears stream down his cheeks from his task but Link manages all of it without a sound. His fingers now back in place, throbbing but functional, he wipes his face dry. With no time to rest he reaches down for the ropes around his ankles.    </p>
<p>When he hears the chime of diamonds he whips his head up, hands freezing on the rope.</p>
<p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>Ghirahim allows his fangs to gleam, glowering down at the tied-up Hylian beneath him. Unfortunately the expression is wasted. A shred of cloth hinders Link’s vision.   </p>
<p>His hands are free, ropes hanging loosely over his wrists, and he had clearly been working at the knots around his ankles. The blindfold remains.   </p>
<p>Disorganized priorities, certainly.    </p>
<p>“Ghirahim?” Comes the uncertain utternace of his name — uncertain because the idiotic hero remains sightless.    </p>
<p>“I should <em> flog </em> you for getting yourself caught,” he returns.     </p>
<p>Even with that blindfold marring it, Link’s glare is obvious.  </p>
<p>“It’s not my fault.”  </p>
<p>Ghirahim huffs out an indignant <em>ha</em> and sets a hand on one hip, the other twisting through the air as he speaks. “Your insistence on aiding every unfortunate fool we come across has allowed for your capture.”   </p>
<p>“I didn’t ‘allow’ anything. And what’s wrong with helping people?”  </p>
<p>“You are far too trusting.”  </p>
<p>“It’s better than not trusting anyone at all.”  </p>
<p>“Look where you are, you stupid hero!” he snaps, his calm exterior chipped away. “This is what your kindness, your <em>naivety</em>, has wrought you.”   </p>
<p>“I’m fine! I’m almost free.”  </p>
<p>“You are <em>lucky</em> they are transporting you prior to slicing that neck open. That is all. Your luck <em>will</em> run out, and do not expect me—”   </p>
<p>“Ghirahim, I’m never going to stop helping people.”  </p>
<p>The demon bristles, both at being cut short of his speech and at the words themselves. “Then you will <em>die</em>,” he says, flicking a finger towards Link. “If not by random stranger than by the weight of your own destiny.”   </p>
<p>Through the blindfold still Link glares up at him again. “<em>Fine</em>,” is the only response offered, spoken with harshness, with stubborn resilience.   </p>
<p>“Remove that <em>thing</em>,” the demon snaps, pointing a grave finger toward the dimwitted hero, “from your face.”    </p>
<p>“Why? What do you care?”    </p>
<p>Ghirahim does not, in fact, care at all. A hush comes over them. </p>
<p>“Ghirah-”</p>
<p>The demon snaps his fingers, disappearing from the rickety cart.  </p>
<p>Clouds continue to roll through the air, devouring the sunless sky in an omnibloom of grey as the demon lord materializes outside the cart. This time he places himself in front of the trite entourage of thieves, who come to a halt upon spotting him in their path. Rain begins to pour as Ghirahim calls forth his black saber. Weighted water drips lethargically onto his cheeks and shoulders as he lets his cloak melt away in shimmering magic. The dampness of his hair, normally disliked, is secondary to him as the demon raises his sword in a smooth arc to his mouth. A writhing tongue licks a sauntering trail down the lengthy black steel. The rain does not bother him, not at all. Slaughter is always best performed while <em>wet</em>.    </p>
<p>Three of the red-clad goons flee the moment their eyes land on him, coiled to strike as he is. Ghirahim watches them go with a gleaming smile; he watches them as he tongues his blade, metallic body heated enough to lightly steam the rain that finds his skin. Those three must be the only intelligent of the lot — and they will escape with their lives, if only because the demon takes no pleasure in killing without a challenge.   </p>
<p>The three remaining figures in red garb stand to face him. Two are armed with bows — inane weaponry that it is, cowardly in its long range — and one with a sword whose blade curls and twists as if warped.   </p>
<p>A chill quivers up Ghirahim’s spine, tingling and assaulting, metal nearly singing as the sensation forces his body into contortions. The demon releases his saber, leaving it to float listlessly beside him. Black clawed hands slink up his own arms. They drag, feeling perfect hard skin. He envelopes himself wholly, the need for movement unignorable, and groans as the exhilaration courses through every part of him, ringing inside his metal like a low bell-tone. His gloves vanish with a sigh, dissipating to nothing. Blackness encroaches from his clawed fingertips up his arms. <em>Stunning</em>, he muses to himself, admiring his form while his head loses itself to an incomprehensible haze.    </p>
<p>Oh it has been too long!—far too long since he’d been unleashed with such an arduous <em>fever</em> , too long since slaughter came with such great <em>purpose!</em> The ingrates before him had performed but weak-minded trickery. They were honorless in battle. Ghirahim would not be disrespected so.    </p>
<p>The first red wretch charges for him while he’s preoccupied caressing his own body. It matters little. The demon sighs to himself, high and languid and desperate, and with an absent wave of fingers sends a wrung of black knives screeching through the rain-soaked air. All six land their hits. Six flesh-sunken thuds from the top of a masked head to the toes of red tabi. The demon does not release himself until he hears the delectably satisfying sound of a corpse slamming deathly onto wet earth.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim unfolds himself from his lurid embrace. Head rolling forward as if controlled somewhere by strings, he sets dark eyes piercing through the remaining two hapless goons. Rainwater washes over him, drenching his white form-fitting suit and his hair, drenching his arms and his shoulders, chest, thighs, drenching even his hand where it slinks now around his saber. The pelting shower soaks him. He feels it fully, water and the anticipation of carnage and the passionate, inalterable desire to slay these woeful whelps for daring to toy with what they had no claim to.     </p>
<p>The demon erupts into a groan he cannot withhold and then he charges, thundering through the air as direct and exact as any arrow. The pitiable red-clad rodents are abject and unsatisfactory prey. A warm bloom of heat devours the demon as he nears his kill; a flutter of pleasure claws at his insides, burning and sharp and begging — oh he had forgotten how sweet the taste of purposeful slaughter could be!   </p>
<p>Overloaded with heat the sword seeks his victim; Ghirahim kills the first red clad goon much too quickly to be fully enjoyed. His saber finds purchase through a mask, cracking it apart and plunging into a skull. The resulting death-throe is enough to draw his tongue from his mouth.    </p>
<p>From the side of his deranged eyes the demon sees blond and the colours of that distractible coat. The hero has freed himself. He is out in the rain, eyes frozen on a singular target.   </p>
<p>Ghirahim returns to his prey. He takes the courtesy of liberating the final whelp of her sword. A black clawed hand snatches her throat like an amphibian to a fly. He squeezes, his mouth wide and fangs gleaming and rain water pelting. Pulling his saber back to strike, breathing heavily, the sound of padding boots through grass a backdrop to the melody of his murder—    </p>
<p>He kills her as Link yells his name. The slip of steel through skin is sleek enough to force a sigh from his lips, tongue still slithered free from its wet cave and vision as overloaded as his mind, metal body compressed and swallowed with heat, with honed prowess and skills that had meandered in meaninglessness for far too long.    </p>
<p>The demon releases the body to the grass. The impact is dull and wet. Blood mars the dirt, washed and splotched with rainwater. It slicks up the side of the wooden cart, splatter from his knives. Red trails away with the rain. So much blood for only three bodies. Normally he is neater than this, Ghirahim notes with a frown. Normally—    </p>
<p>“Ghirahim!”</p>
<p>The hero is at his heels in a moment, blindfold blissfully absent. Yet those eyes are surveying the battlefield — only no <em>battle</em> took place, he merely showed them the passage to death. Link is staring hopeless-eyed at the three corpses, at the rivering blood, at Ghirahim’s blackened hands and arms…   </p>
<p>“What did you <em>do?”</em></p>
<p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>Link can only stare, his mouth hung open and his head spinning while his heart screams out its beats. Ghirahim’s arms are black. He has <em>claws</em>, just like he’d had in the tree. Razor-sharp and as black as obsidian. That tongue is slinking out of his mouth, expression so plainly indecent Link wants to look away, but he can’t, he can’t.    </p>
<p>Killing monsters is one thing. Link can kill bokoblins, moblins, lizalfos… <em>any</em> of them without a second thought. Ganon brings them to life with his malice, but they’re empty puppets. Link has <em>tried</em> to talk to them. He’d even followed one around for a whole day soon after waking up, just to make sure it didn’t have a family to go home to. It seemed stupid after the fact, but at the time he’d needed to be sure.   </p>
<p>These Yiga members weren’t monsters. They’re <em>people</em>. And Ghirahim had covered the grass in their blood.  </p>
<p>“What…” he whisperers, eyes skirting across the carnage.  </p>
<p>In all the times Link had fought with that sword in his hands Ghirahim had never let him be sloppy. Not like this. Even in that first vision he’d had, the slice Ghirahim made into his abdomen had been clean, slow, and precise.   </p>
<p>The scene in front of him now… It was from something <em>unhinged</em>.</p>
<p>“Did I <em>frighten</em> you?” Comes the creeping crawl of a metallic voice, jittering in its own excitement. “You have my deepest apologies <em>Link</em>, I would never wish to <em>frighten</em> you.” He says it like a threat. He says it like he doesn’t mind at all if Link is afraid.     </p>
<p>“You didn’t have to kill them,” he replies, trying to speak over all the rain pouring down between them.  </p>
<p>Ghirahim’s brow lowers. When he speaks he doesn’t sound unhinged; though his voice is more metal than its usual sonorous tone.   </p>
<p>“Your sentimentalities border on infantile. They are willing servants of my Master! <em>They</em>,” here the demon whips a black arm out to gesture to the corpses, claws opening up like a deadly flower, “hold no such reservations. They <em>took</em> you—” he pauses as if the words are unknown to him, as if he isn’t sure of what he’s saying, “—to <em>kill</em> you.” Ghirahim’s grey, angular face warps into an ugly frown. “They would have done away with your life, not a single vapid <em>sentimentality</em> to hinder them.”   </p>
<p>Link stares. Still Ghirahim’s voice is metallic, ringing through his head like a drawn-out chime. He tries to focus. To stay angry. “Look at what you <em>did</em>,” Link rasps. All this death. All this blood. The rainwater in white hair. His eyes almost look like a different colour, almost crimson. Can’t be. They’d been black since Link had met him.   </p>
<p>Except sometimes, weren’t they hazel?  </p>
<p>“I admit, I appear to have lost control. <em>Slightly</em>,” Ghirahim amends. “But need I remind you what I am? A <em>sword</em> , a <em>demon</em>. I exist to inflict damage. You had best—”   </p>
<p>“They’re <em>people</em>, Ghirahim.”  </p>
<p>The demon seethes. “These <em>people</em> have an agenda, clearly, and it involves an end to your life! Why won—”  </p>
<p>“I don’t <em>care</em>,” Link snaps, his mind turned inside out, confused by that metallic voice and by his bloody claws, his cracked skin, his gleaming fangs. “I don’t care,” he says again, this time softer.   </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Something breaks within the demon. Like a dry twig in a burning fire. There is an unmistakable and nearly audible <em>snap</em> inside of him, from a deep and unreachable place. Perhaps he had gone too long without fighting as he is now, more true to his sword than he generally elects to be.    </p>
<p>Ghirahim takes a step forward, simply so he may loom over the hero better. “Your kindness will not always be reflected back at you,” he says with a growl, showing his teeth.   </p>
<p>“I don’t want anyone else to die.”  </p>
<p>“Death is a reality of war. If you cannot kill, you will not survive it.”  </p>
<p>“It’s <em>wrong</em>,” Link says, his eyes and tone fiery.  </p>
<p>Ghirahim laughs, unable to help the bright sound of disbelief. “<em>Wrong?</em> I have done far worse than this, hero.”   </p>
<p>“Don’t…”</p>
<p>“You are a fool for caring,” he continues, waving a hand through the air to admire it, the blackness too long gone from his vision. “They have doubtless soaked their blades in the blood of many. They would likely do so again if they were not dead.” Ghirahim flicks his wrist and then peers down at Link. “Does that quell your bleeding heart?”    </p>
<p>Blue eyes stare unwaveringly up at him. Rain has flattened his hair. Longer strands stick to his cheeks, water drips down the slope of his nose. There is a soft sort of hardness to that peach face.   </p>
<p>“Is that why you killed them?” Link asks. “Because they’re... bad?”  </p>
<p>Ghirahim goes as still as the metal he is made from. Sightful eyes do not waver. The question remains alight within them. Rain floods down between their faces, inches apart but only due to height. Their bodies are not far apart at all.   </p>
<p>The demon had told himself the battle was purposeful. Yet what had been the purpose? Surely not to save the lives of unknown and unimportant mortals. If not that, then what?   </p>
<p>“No,” he says, the word a bit too diffident for his liking.  </p>
<p><br/>
--</p>
<p><br/>
Link squints up at the demon. The corpses and the blood are a lot to take in. The way Ghirahim had killed them, graceless and wild, is even <em>more</em> than a lot. Link had heard the commotion, the running and scuffling, the moaning.    </p>
<p>But he hadn’t heard a single scream.  </p>
<p>They must have died fast, and he wonders why Ghirahim would do that, when Link knows how much the demon enjoys a slow, guttural kill.   </p>
<p>It’s not like Link doesn’t see his point. If someone is trying to kill you, then killing <em>them</em> shouldn’t be considered… necessarily wrong. He wouldn’t fault anyone else for it. Morality is more nuanced than that. He gets it. In theory he gets it.   </p>
<p>But it doesn’t <em>feel</em> right. Killing another person, with thoughts and dreams and a family somewhere… How could it ever be okay? Ghirahim is a demon and a sword and maybe killing doesn’t mean much to <em>him</em> -- but Link <em>isn’t</em>. It’s his destiny to <em>save</em> everyone, isn’t it? Even if it wasn’t, he’d still be here trying. </p>
<p>Maybe that’s why, he realizes with a soft intake of rainy air. Maybe that’s <em>enough</em>.  </p>
<p>With a stunned blink of his eyes, the narrowed glare he has trained up at Ghirahim fades.   </p>
<p>Link doesn’t want people to die. He doesn’t want the sword at his hands to kill any more than necessary. He doesn’t want Ghirahim to kill innocent people, and hopes no part of the demon would enjoy that.   </p>
<p>But maybe things are fine just like they are, and having this demon for a sword is actually some sort of twisted blessing.    </p>
<p>Because if Link wouldn’t kill people who needed to be killed — who Hylia expects him to kill — if he couldn’t…   </p>
<p>Ghirahim <em>could</em>.  </p>
<p>“No?” Link says, repeating the answer he’d been given. Only now he’s smirking. Only now he isn’t afraid, not at all.</p>
<p>Fangs shimmer in the cascading rain and claws slip distracted at that saber. Dark eyes glare down at Link, the demon bending at his hips. “Whatever you are musing in that empty mind of yours…”    </p>
<p>“You have a point,” Link says, looking left through all the showering rain, feeling heavy. Feeling the weight of the space between them. It had always been so big. “I don’t think I could ever kill someone. But I guess sometimes I’ll have to,” he says, wiping soaked hair away from his eyes. “So it’s a good thing you’re here.”    </p>
<p>Ghirahim’s expression twists. “You are <em>deranged</em>,” he snarls and Link can’t help the grin that washes over his lips, rainwater hitting his teeth as it grows wide. “What goes on in that blond head? I should have left you to your death.”   </p>
<p>“Ghirahim.”</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>.” The demon is seething. That strange metallic tone is still in his voice. It sounds kind of nice, actually.    </p>
<p>“Where’s your sword?” Link asks.  </p>
<p>With an irritated, almost flustered huff the demon snaps his fingers. Diamonds unfurl without their usual vividness.  </p>
<p>A heavy weight lands on his turned-up palms. Link smiles even as its sudden presence buckles his knees, rocking him a bit on his feet. Hanging over the blade are the cut belts. Drops of water patter on the leather, beading and sliding down to the bloody grass.   </p>
<p>The demon in front of him is gone. Steel is warm against his hands even under the cool rain.  </p>
<p>Link eyes the sliced leather belts.  </p>
<p>He’ll find new ones. They can go back and see Kaysa, or maybe buy something as they head west. Still though, he’s kind of irritated. Did the Yiga have to <em>cut</em> them?   </p>
<p>Sighing tiredly, Link slips the belts through the holster around his hips.  </p>
<p>He switches his grip, holding the sword by the hilt now. Rainwater changes directory with the shift and drips down black steel, pooling at the crossguard and then over Link’s hands.   </p>
<p>Somehow, amidst three corpses and all of this blood, he feels quiet. Not happy, but calm.  </p>
<p>
  <em>I was unable to carry your holy little slab. You will have to retrieve it yourself.</em>
</p>
<p>Absently Link nods, heading back down the trail, sword in his hands. He doesn’t actually know which way is the right way, but he knows Ghirahim will tell him if he’s got it wrong. Rain soaks his coat, his hair, his pants, and it soaks his sword, too, which still feels as warm as a blanket in his hands.   </p>
<p>Link spots the slate lying in the grass, Hateno Tower a clear landmark once he’d rounded a hill. He slips it back onto his hip.  </p>
<p>His hands slide against a wet hilt. Link tries to hold it tighter. It slides again, rainwater making it slippery; the fingers of his left hand are weak from their dislocation.   </p>
<p>Still, it’s okay. He’s carried heavier things.  </p>
<p>Swiping matted, soaked hair from his forehead, he takes a few slow breaths. Gentle raindrops slide down his cheeks.  </p>
<p>“Thank you,” Link says, looking straight at the gem, its colour fading to a light sort of red, “for coming after me.”   </p>
<p>The metal in his hands flares with sharp heat, rain steaming as it lands on the sword. Link gasps in pain. But he doesn’t let go.    </p>
<p>“Would you stop doing that?”  </p>
<p>No reply comes.</p>
<p> </p>
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